


Earned Pride

by RetroactiveCon



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Autistic Hartley Rathaway, Autistic Jerrie Rathaway, Developing Relationship, Homophobia, Hospitals, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Osgood Rathaway's A+ Parenting, Recovery, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2020-06-28
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:35:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 20,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21762259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RetroactiveCon/pseuds/RetroactiveCon
Summary: “What’s the golden boy of Rathaway Industries doing hiding in a corner at his own event?”Hartley shakes his head. “My parents’ event, not mine. And I’m not very good at talking to people about anything other than science, which isn’t what tonight is about.”Mayor Snart tilts his head. “Can’t it be? You’re the chief engineer of a cutting-edge company. I think you’ve earned the right to boast.”
Relationships: Hartley Rathaway/Leonard Snart
Comments: 65
Kudos: 67





	1. Chapter 1

Hartley supposes it was inevitable that he would develop a crush on Central City’s mayor. They see each other every few months at charity events, where Hartley is reminded anew of Leonard Snart’s generosity, intellect, and keen wit. He’s certain he comes off as unutterably dull by comparison, so he’s all the more surprised when Mayor Snart seeks him out at one such event. 

“Hartley Rathaway?”

Hartley whirls around. He’s been doing his best to avoid being pulled into conversation—the people who attend Rathaway Industries’ New Year’s Eve event are seldom worth talking to. Upon finding himself less than an arm’s length away from Mayor Snart, words fail him. “Uh, that’s me,” he murmurs feebly. 

The mayor’s keen eyes glint with amusement. “I know,” he says. “You look lonely. I thought you might want company.”

Hartley can only nod in response. If he tries to speak, he’ll babble, and there’s no faster way to chase someone away. Everyone likes him better when he’s quiet. 

“So.” Mayor Snart beckons Hartley to a pair of chairs. Hartley perches on the furthest edge of his, because there’s no reason to get close when this is just a courtesy. If he gets too close, he might delude himself that the mayor wants to spend time with him. If he gets too close, the mayor might be able to see past his carefully-constructed façade to the inept, repulsive creature he is. “What’s the golden boy of Rathaway Industries doing hiding in a corner at his own event?”

Hartley shakes his head. “My parents’ event, not mine. And I’m not very good at talking to people about anything other than science, which isn’t what tonight is about.”

Mayor Snart tilts his head. “Can’t it be? You’re the chief engineer of a cutting-edge company. I think you’ve earned the right to boast.” 

Hartley feels himself light up. If he’s not careful, he’ll wind up babbling, monopolize the conversation, and bore the mayor to death. He needs to redirect. “Cutting-edge technology means nothing if it isn’t well-implemented. The steps you’ve taken for a sustainable Central City—I’m just glad our technology can be of use.” 

The mayor glances down at his hand, which is playing idly with the button on his suit. Only once they’re no longer making eye contact does he smile, soft and self-deprecating. “I didn’t seek you out for flattery, Hartley. Central City almost failed on my watch. Allow me one night to express genuine awe of someone capable of producing change not just here but nationwide.” 

Hartley’s cheeks heat up. He curls forward on himself to hide his blush. Acutely aware that he can’t accept the mayor’s compliment, he deflects. “I’m fortunate enough to get to do what I love. I’m so grateful that it’s of use to people.”

The mayor gestures to a passing server, who hurries over to offer them champagne. Hartley is so entranced by the careless flick of the mayor’s long, slender fingers that he almost forgets to take the proffered champagne flute. 

“Oh! Thank you.” Blushing furiously, he tears his gaze away from the mayor’s hands and takes a glass. The mayor favors him with an indulgent look that makes Hartley’s heart freeze. He’s noticed, of course he has, Hartley is staring like a lovesick schoolboy, how revolted he must be…

“If you’ll forgive my forwardness, I’d pictured you as arrogant.” It takes Hartley a moment to connect the mayor’s gentle words to his amused smile. He barely stifles a sigh of relief. Mayor Snart continues, still smiling, “It never occurred to me that you might be shy.” 

In another life, perhaps he would have been prideful, but growing up acutely aware of the discrepancy between his true self and the man his parents thought he was left him secretive and ashamed. He can’t, of course, tell this to the mayor. Instead, he musters a smile and jokes, “You know what people think of arrogant inventors. Look at Harrison Wells.” 

Mayor Snart raises his glass in acknowledgment. “Point taken, although I would like to stress that there’s a difference between arrogance and earned pride. You’ve accomplished things worth being proud of. You’re allowed to act like it.”

Hartley preens. As soon as the first giddy rush of delight fades, he digs his fingertips into his thigh. The dull twinge of healing wounds deflates any burgeoning pride. He reminds himself once more that he doesn’t deserve praise, and he certainly has no right to take pride in himself. “I—thank you. That means a lot coming from you.” 

Mayor Snart tilts his head. “You mean that,” he says slowly. When Hartley nods, he admits, “Since Zoom, it’s grown increasingly rare that people care what I have to say.”

“You did all you could.” Impulsively, Hartley sits forward. Instead of recoiling, Mayor Snart leans toward him as though grateful for Hartley’s words. “You did enough that Zoom felt threatened.”

Mayor Snart grimaces. No doubt he, like Hartley, is remembering the day six months ago when Zoom left a message in blood on his office wall: _Stop searching for me, or you will be next._ “I’m still not sure that ‘all I could’ was enough. After all, it’s thanks to Harrison Wells, not me, that Zoom is gone.” 

“You did your best to keep everyone safe.” _Including yourself,_ Hartley almost adds, but doesn’t. There’s no need to tell Mayor Snart how irrationally terrified he’d been in the weeks immediately following Zoom’s threat. If the mayor had died, Hartley would have been devastated—foolish in itself, given how little he knew Mayor Snart at the time. (Infatuation is a foolish thing, he reasons.) “That’s all anyone can ask.”

Mayor Snart huffs a laugh, a low sharp sound that goes to Hartley’s head like alcohol. “You’re sweet. One more thing I didn’t expect.” 

Hartley blushes anew under the praise. He’s never liked to be ‘sweet’—it reminds him too much of the act he puts on for his parents—but in this instance, he doesn’t mind. “Thank you.”

It’s about this time that Jerrie scampers over. At ten, she’s been deemed old enough to attend, but if Hartley knows her at all, she hates it. Without care for Mayor Snart, she runs up to Hartley, grabs his hand, and says, “Hart, I don’t like the lights and there’s too many people. Can we go please?” 

Hartley shoots the mayor an apologetic glance. He wants to stay and talk, but if Jerrie doesn’t go home now, she’ll go into an overstimulated meltdown. “I have to go,” he murmurs. “Thank you for talking with me.”

Mayor Snart shakes his head. “Thank you. We should find another time to meet. I want to hear you talk about your latest feats of engineering.”

Hartley ought to decline. If he had an ounce of good sense, he wouldn’t put himself in a position where he might succumb to temptation and do something unfortunate like try to kiss the mayor. Unfortunately, self-control is among the many things he lacks. “I’d like that.”

As they walk out the door, Jerrie pronounces, “I like him, Hart. He feels like warm.” 

Hartley nods. He’d gotten the same impression, but hearing it from Jerrie makes him more confident in his assessment of Mayor Snart’s character. “I like him, too.”

“Mama and Papa don’t.” As soon as they reach the front doors, Jerrie reaches up and tugs clips out of her hair. Hartley dutifully collects them and slips them into his jacket pocket. “They invite him because they have to. They call him a…”

“Coward?” Hartley finishes ruefully. His parents fled town in fear of Zoom, but they weren’t shy about criticizing the mayor from afar. 

“Pervert,” Jerrie reports. “Something about being proud?” 

Hartley frowns, unable to make sense of that. “He’s accomplished plenty that he should take pride in.”

“That, yeah!” Jerrie agrees. “But not ‘take pride.’ Something about being ‘at pride,’ which I don’t understand. Is it a place as well as a feeling?” 

Hartley’s eyes widen. At Pride—that makes sense, he supposes, for the mayor to speak at such a large event, but simply condoning such affections doesn’t make someone a pervert, even by his parents’ standards. “We have more in common than I thought,” he realizes. With a sudden, hot flush of delight and embarrassment, he realizes that the mayor might have been flirting with him. _“Oh.”_

Jerrie giggles. “Oh what?” 

“Oh, nothing.” Now that they’re out of sight of their parents, Hartley feels comfortable scooping her in his arms. He staggers under her weight and leans back to compensate. Soon, she’ll be too large for him to carry her, so he has to make the most of it while he can. “Come on. Let’s get you home.”


	2. Chapter 2

Hartley doesn’t expect a handwritten note in the mail about a week after the New Year’s Eve party. He hasn’t gotten mail, save the occasional spam letter, for over a year. His first reaction is to head for the recycling bin; then he sees the elegant, slanting writing on the address. 

“At least it’s from a person?” he muses to no one in particular. Upon opening the envelope, he finds an official-looking piece of paper with a letter that, no matter how he tries, cannot be construed as official. 

_I hope you don’t find me presumptuous in writing to you so soon. However, I wanted you to know that my offer of lunch, or coffee if you prefer, still stands. I would like to see more of you and to hear more about your work. Let me know if you would like to meet, and if so, when might work. (I regret that it will have to be sometime next month; this month’s schedule is brimming over with ‘important’ meetings.)_

_Hoping you are well,_

_Leonard Snart_

Hartley blushes to the roots of his hair. After the New Year’s Eve party, he managed to convince himself that Mayor Snart was simply being polite and that the strange, shivery connection he’d felt was nothing but the fruitless delusion of a schoolboy crush. This threatens his hard-won conviction: nobody ever reached out for coffee merely to be polite. 

“Don’t, don’t, don’t.” He sets the letter on the counter, hurries into the next room, and forces any inklings of hope from his mind. “He likes my work, that’s all, he keeps bringing it back to my work. He wants an in with Rathaway Industries, of course he does, that’s all. And even if—” He has to address the possibility, however slim “—even if he thinks he wants me, he won’t once I start talking. Which is good, because I don’t get to be in love, I’ll hurt everyone if I think I deserve love.” 

A familiar, achy tension coils in his gut. That’s good. He associates that feeling with knowing his place, and that’s good. Everything is back in order. He’ll reply, and he’ll thank the mayor for the offer but say he’s too busy to meet, and that will be that. He can continue nursing his pathetic crush and hating himself for it, and as long as no one finds out, all will be well. 

His resolve lasts until he writes a reply. Against his better judgment, he finds himself writing that he would like to meet, and would the first Tuesday of next month be acceptable? He stares at the note in disgust once it’s written. He should shred it and start fresh. 

“Or,” he muses aloud, “I could go. He just wants to talk about work, and I need to build up a tolerance to love. Opponent-process theory, and all that.”

It’s an excuse for weakness. He hears it, and he knows it, and he’s still too weak to stop himself. When they meet, he’ll no doubt do something horrifically stupid and scare the mayor away permanently. He’ll do his best to prevent it, but he knows himself too well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't mean for there to be more to this story, but apparently E-2 Hartley and Len have minds of their own. Also I'm sorry in advance - it's going to get more depressing before it gets better, because Hartley has all kinds of internalized homophobia and self-worth issues to sort through before he can let himself be happy.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time he goes to his parents’ for dinner, Jerrie corners him. “So?”

“What’s ‘so’?” He wants to scoop her, but that would be a bad idea. Instead, he rubs a hand over his thigh and smiles at the twinge of new cuts. 

“So are you seeing the mayor again?” She bounces once, impatiently. “He’s warm and you liked him, so are you seeing him again?” 

He glances around the room to ensure they’re alone before confessing, “Yes, but don’t tell Mama and Papa. They’ll think he’s going to…” _Infect me with ‘the gay,’_ he doesn’t say. “…hurt me.”

Jerrie frowns. “No, he’s warm, he won’t hurt you.”

Hartley doesn’t want to explain that the mayor’s inviting warmth is, in fact, the problem. Were he more closed off, Hartley might not be as tempted to do something dreadful. “No,” he agrees. “He won’t hurt me. They won’t understand that.” _I might hurt him,_ he doesn’t add. _I might chase him away and make him hate me and it would be no more than my due._

Jerrie nods. “Like they don’t understand me. I won’t tell them. But then you have to tell me everything.” 

Little extortionist. One way or another, Hartley will tell her what happens. He may not tell her everything, but she’ll get the juicy details she wants. “I will.” 

Hartley stays as quiet as he can at supper. It’s easier this way; his parents can project whatever they want to see onto his silence without the need for lies. He doubts they want to hear that he’s suffocating himself to make them happy. When they do coax him to talk, he rambles about work, such that his mother finally asks, “Oh, Hartley, you know how proud we are, but you need to make time for yourself. The way you work…it isn’t healthy.”

It’s healthier than the alternative, which is sitting alone in his apartment reciting every reason he’ll never be good enough or contemplating the advantages of a world without him in it. He can’t say that. “I like work, Mama. You know I’m not very good with people.” 

His father frowns but makes no comment. Hartley knows his opinion of his social difficulties; they don’t need to revisit it. 

“You just aren’t around the right people,” his mother says. Hartley suppresses a wince. If he reached out to the ‘right’ people, even discreetly, he would feel terrible. Not to mention, if word ever got back to his parents…it doesn’t bear thinking about. 

“I have you,” he addresses both of his parents, “and Jerrie. Who else do I need?”

That’s the crux of it. He can’t imagine what life would be like if he did something to lose them. They could keep him away from Jerrie—he might never see her again. 

Jerrie pats his arm and says, in that oddly sage voice she only uses to mock him, “Other people, Hart.” 

He shoots her a sideways glance. He’ll give ‘other people’ a try, but at the end of the day, she’ll always be his priority. For her sake, he can suppress his deviant urges for however long he has to.


	4. Chapter 4

To his regret, the mayor sends a second letter confirming that the first Tuesday of the month works perfectly. He adds a little ‘I’m looking forward to seeing you again’ that sends Hartley into a twenty-minute panic. There’s no reason to read affection into courtesy. The mayor is a kind man who goes out of his way to make everyone, even revolting creatures like Hartley, feel welcome. If anything, the reminder of that kindness should make Hartley cancel their meeting to spare the mayor from having to tolerate him for an hour. Unfortunately, he isn’t that strong. 

The agreed-upon Tuesday arrives too quickly for Hartley’s liking. He hasn’t scripted enough. He isn’t prepared to walk into Jitters and find himself confronted with Mayor Snart’s keen blue eyes. 

“Hartley.” The mayor gets to his feet to clasp Hartley’s hand. His fingers are warm and strong. Hartley’s heart does an embarrassing little somersault in his chest. “I’m glad you could make it.” 

“You as well, sir.” What kind of response is _that,_ Hartley chides himself. 

The mayor smiles, gentle and surprisingly self-deprecating. “You can call me Leonard—or Len, if you prefer. I’m out of the office for once. Please let me escape the formalities.” 

Hartley blushes. “Is your office so unbearable, si—Leonard?” 

The mayor—Leonard—tilts his head. “I wouldn’t call the office unbearable,” he says slowly. “The people, on the other hand…” At Hartley’s confused glance, he elaborates, “Never go into politics. Everyone either agrees mindlessly with every word you say or dismisses your ideas out of hand. There’s not nearly enough reasonable discussion to get anything done.” 

“Then why stay?” Hartley glances furtively at Leonard’s coffee. He wouldn’t mind something sweet, but he shouldn’t—it’s unattractive to eat in front of people he’s trying to impress. 

“Honestly? Because I don’t trust anyone else to do a halfway decent job,” Leonard admits. His eyes glint with amusement. “Central City almost failed on my watch. On anyone else’s, it might have burned.”

Hartley covers a startled laugh. He’s not sure he’s permitted to laugh when Zoom’s reign of terror was so recent and so devastating. Thankfully, Leonard only looks indulgent. 

“Would you like something to drink? I’d say my treat, but of the two of us…”

“Oh, no, that’s all right.” Hartley doesn’t know what will be more awkward: putting anything near his mouth when he’s acutely self-conscious or not getting something when Leonard already has. “I…um, I guess I’ll go get something?” 

“Are you asking my permission?” Hartley’s stomach plummets. He’s done something wrong, Leonard is mocking him, _stupid stupid…_ “Because if so, you have it.” 

Hartley shivers as though he’s caught a chill. That was nothing remotely like what he expected, and it feels…he doesn’t even know. The nerves twisting in his stomach settle immediately. He’s able to order a sweet tea and a bagel without even a twinge of guilt. 

“So you prefer tea?” Leonard asks when he returns to the table. 

“I…yeah.” Hartley breaks off a piece of bagel and puts it in his mouth. He has a habit of sucking on bagels; they feel good in his mouth, with just the right amount of springy firmness. His parents tried to train him out of it, but when he’s nervous, he reverts. It’s disgusting, he reminds himself. Leonard will think he’s stupid and disgusting. “Did you already eat?” 

Leonard stirs his coffee. “I stress-eat at the office,” he confesses. “So I’m not hungry right now, no.” 

Hartley breaks off another piece of bagel and sucks on it. ( _Disgusting,_ he can’t help thinking.) He can’t think of anything to say; it’s just as well he has something to keep his mouth occupied or he would ramble meaninglessly. 

“I’ll confess ulterior motives for bringing you here,” Leonard says. Hartley’s heart stops. This is the part where he’ll be told that he’s nothing more than the most accessible face of a very rich family, and why would anyone ever want to actually spend time with him, how stupid can he be… “I’m hopelessly intrigued by your work. I’d love it if you wanted to talk about it.”

That doesn’t compute. Nobody is ever curious about Hartley’s work. “What, my…the cochlear implants? They’re nothing impressive…”

“On the contrary.” He props his elbows on the table and gazes intently at Hartley’s face. Oddly enough, he doesn’t try for eye contact, which is a relief; Hartley can tolerate it better than Jerrie, but he doesn’t enjoy it. “From what I understand, they capture at least four times the sound quality of any comparable device. I just don’t understand how.”

“Electrode size.” Hartley should stop himself. He’ll babble and monopolize the conversation, but it feels so _good_ to get to explain his work. “Essentially, cochlear implants stimulate the cochlear nerve in place of hair cells—the cells that should send electrical stimuli. The cells themselves are miniscule—we have thousands of them—and it’s impossible to get such a complex electrode array…”

“But the smaller the electrodes, the greater the number you can include, and the more individualized the pitches,” Leonard finishes. 

“Exactly!” Hartley lights up. “The people I've been working with say they most want to hear voices, so the ones I’m working on right now have the greatest density of electrodes in about the 85-255 Hertz range—human voice range. There are ones pitched higher and lower, but having the higher density means each electrode replaces a smaller range, so there's greater pitch differentiation.” 

“I’m impressed.” Leonard’s smile seems genuine. A proud little glow kindles in Hartley’s chest. He’s so happy he doesn’t know what to do with himself. “Your work will benefit a lot of people.” 

“I hope so.” Hartley breaks off another piece of bagel and pops it in his mouth. He’s talked for too long; Leonard should have a chance to speak. 

“As I told you at the party, you deserve to take pride in your work.” Leonard’s fingertips brush against Hartley’s knuckles. It’s so light, so brief, that it’s probably an accident, but Hartley’s stomach swoops as though he’s tripped on the stairs. Leonard studies him so intently that Hartley fears he noticed his ridiculous, lovestruck reaction. Instead, when he speaks, he sounds vaguely bewildered. “You really can’t see what you’ve accomplished.”

Hartley’s thoughts have forsaken him. This is the only reason he does something as utterly foolish as clasping Leonard’s hand. He expects to be chided, recoiled from, mocked. He doesn’t foresee Leonard’s soft, encouraging smile or the gentle pressure on his fingers. 

“Am I misreading this?” Leonard asks. This is the first time Hartley has heard him sound hesitant, and it breaks his heart. 

“Y—” He can’t bring himself to say ‘yes.’ He should; it’s the safe option, the one that keeps him with his family and Leonard free of a piteous, revolting _thing._ When faced with the tentative vulnerability in Leonard’s eyes, he can’t say anything other than, “You’re not misreading it.”

Leonard’s thumb brushes over his knuckles. Hartley wants to watch the repetitive motion, but he can’t look away from Leonard's face. “We should slow down,” he says, sounding as though that’s the last thing in the world he wants to do. 

Hartley nods. He certainly isn’t strong enough to stop whatever unspoken connection has formed between them. “Yes, we should.”

Neither of them leans back. Hartley isn’t sure either of them would have moved if, at that moment, Leonard’s phone hadn’t chirped. 

“Damn.” Leonard pulls back. The world rushes in like high tide and Hartley flings himself back in his chair. They’re in public. How stupid could he be? Anyone could have seen them; anyone could have come to all kinds of conclusions. Wrong conclusions, of course, very wrong, because Hartley _cannot_ be interested in the mayor. It would certainly be the end of the life he knows; it might ruin Leonard’s, too. “I should go.”

“I, yes, I’ve kept you too long.” At least being a good little society boy means he has a host of too-polite scripts to fall back on. “I’m so sorry. Will I see you again?”

He should have cut that part of the script out. Leonard’s eyes soften and he asks, “Does the first Tuesday of next month work?” 

Without thinking, Hartley nods. He doesn’t do things on Tuesdays. Apparently now he does. 

“Then yes.” Leonard gathers up his coat, drains the last of his coffee, and favors Hartley with a last, lingering look. “You will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently both E-2 Rathaway children are autistic. I didn't go into the story with that plan, but Hartley decided about halfway through the chapter that he needed to stim and I really couldn't blame him.


	5. Chapter 5

In the privacy of Hartley’s apartment, Jerrie pries the story from him piece by mortifying piece. To make matters worse, she keeps cooing. He omits the almost-kiss until she demands, with characteristic forthrightness, “Did he kiss you?”

Hartley splutters. “Why would you think that?”

She rolls her eyes. “I looked up Pride, Hart. Mama and Papa don’t like him because he’s _gay._ Which I don’t understand. But he wanted to kiss you, didn’t he?” 

Grudgingly, he admits, “Yes.” 

She bounces so much she rocks the sofa. “And did you want to kiss him?” 

“Jerrie!” The answer, to Hartley’s eternal shame, is ‘yes.’ Despite a week of trying to cut that particular desire away, it doesn’t seem to have lessened. By now, the mere thought of the mayor makes Hartley rub his cuts. (He doesn’t mind. If he can’t fix himself, he can at least condition himself to associate his deviant desires with pain.) 

“You _do_ want to kiss him.” For as little as she can read other people, Jerrie can read him with uncanny accuracy. Of course she’s noticed how broken he is. “You should. He likes you, and he thinks your work is good. Which it is, even if you don’t think so.” 

“I can’t kiss him,” Hartley explains. “Mama and Papa will think I’m a pervert.” 

Jerrie frowns. “Oh yeah. Right, they do that.” She rocks side to side, evidently deep in thought. Hartley rocks with her. Slowly, she decides, “They don’t have to know.”

It isn’t that easy. Both of them are public figures—the tabloids will get hold of their relationship somehow, and then Hartley will be outed, estranged, and publicly shamed. For Jerrie’s amusement, he mimics, “They don’t have to know.” 

He hopes that this will end the conversation. To his dismay, she keeps rocking and coos, “Hart is in love and his love feels like warm.” 

“I’m not in love,” Hartley protests. He’s obsessed. It isn’t the same thing. Love is healthy and good and _not for him;_ obsession is creepy and perverted and disgusting, like he is. He can’t tell this to Jerrie, so he says, “I barely know him. We haven’t had enough time to fall in love.”

Jerrie considers this. “Okay, but you want to be in love.” 

“Doesn’t everyone?” That’s not an answer, but hopefully it will be enough for Jerrie. (Hartley wants to be in love, but he doesn’t deserve it. She doesn’t need to know that.)

“I don’t.” She wriggles. “Or maybe I just haven’t found anyone warm like you have. I think it takes a special person to not really count as a person.”

Most people would consider this insulting. Hartley knows what she means: most people deplete her energy so much that she can’t stand to be around them for long. Someone who ‘doesn’t count as a person’ doesn’t deplete her energy. She’s told him he doesn’t count as a person, which is the highest compliment she can pay. 

“You might find someone like that eventually.” He wraps his arms around her and tips over onto the sofa. She’s dragged down on top of him, which makes her giggle. “But for now, what do you have to worry about?”

“School,” she recites. “And not listening to Mama and Papa.” 

“Good.” He rubs his fingertips gently against her scalp. She purrs, wriggles some more, and settles into his arms. “I don’t want you to turn out like me.”

“No,” she agrees. “I’ll be better.” 

That’s all he wants for her.


	6. Chapter 6

The next time Hartley sees Leonard, the mayor is perched at a table at Jitters, staring grimly at his phone. 

“Is everything all right?” Hartley hovers awkwardly beside the seat that should be his. If he doesn’t sit down, Leonard might feel comfortable leaving. Whatever is making him frown has to be more important than humoring some spoiled socialite. 

“Hmm?” Leonard glances up. “They’re introducing a metahuman registry. Essentially, the government wants to have the ability to stop the next Zoom before they can become a threat.” 

Hartley thinks over Zoom’s reign of terror. The bodies left in Reverb’s wake. The charred or frozen corpses of Firestorm and Killer Frost’s victims. The burning of the Rainbow Raider club, which everyone knew was Firestorm’s doing. Hartley watched from his apartment window. He still remembers the screams. “…You don’t think there could be value in that?”

“I think I know my history.” Leonard’s lips thin. “This metahuman registry would be used to develop weapons targeted to subsets of powers. It could be used against metas like Zoom, but what about ordinary citizens? What happens when they’re deemed too dangerous?” He glances up from his phone screen. His expression softens into something perilously close to pity, and he gestures to the seat at Hartley’s side. “Sit down. I shouldn’t debate you until you’re comfortable.”

Reluctantly, Hartley sinks into his seat but doesn’t shed his coat. He casts a brief, mournful glance at the counter—he hasn’t eaten all day, but he’s so _horrible_ when he eats…

“You can get food,” Leonard prompts gently. “I’ll wait for you.” 

He has permission. His need for it makes him feel vaguely pathetic, but Leonard gives it freely, and it feels so _good._ With barely a thought, he gets to his feet, wanders up to the counter, and places his usual order.

“A creature of habit,” Leonard teases when he returns to the table. “I’m the same way.” He raises his coffee in a kind of ‘cheers.’ Hartley smiles shyly and picks at his bagel. 

“Then you should tell me your order. Like you said, I’m the one who can spare the expense.” 

Leonard nudges his little finger against Hartley’s. It’s the barest touch, easy to dismiss if someone spots them, but it makes Hartley’s chest constrict until it’s hard to breathe. “You’re sweet.”

Hartley blushes and almost chokes on his bagel. He shouldn’t be reacting like this. Discreetly, he drops a hand to his thigh and kneads until there’s pain. Good. At least he’s conditioned himself to do something useful. “I, um. I don’t know if this. If we should. Here.” 

Leonard makes a sorrowful expression. “I forgot. Your parents won’t be best pleased that you’re talking to me.” 

“No.” Hartley glances down at his hand. He mustn’t be selfish, he reminds himself; the stakes for him are abysmally low compared to Leonard. “And you have your image to think about, what if people see us together, what that will do to you…”

Leonard shakes his head. “People know. I couldn’t live with myself if I had to keep myself locked away for fear of changing public opinion.” He snorts. “I get the occasional letter saying I’ll burn in hell, but most people don’t mind.”

Hartley’s brain stalls. He knew this, logically: Leonard makes no secret of his support of Central City’s queer community, and the conclusion isn’t hard to draw. It just hadn’t occurred to him that Leonard would be comfortable…would, if Hartley came out, be seen with him, be open with him…

“I can’t,” he says quickly. 

“Can’t in public?” Leonard clarifies. “Or can’t?” 

Can’t. Hartley can’t. He doesn’t get to do this—the sweet, gentle, falling-in-love thing. He isn’t capable of it, and pretending he is will only get both of them hurt. “Can’t in public,” he whispers, and damns himself. 

“Then why not come to my house?” Leonard invites. He has a crooked, shy smile, as though he fears Hartley’s rejection. “To anyone who asks, it’s strictly business.” 

Hartley feels burning hot, then fever-shivery. He broke himself. “I want that. Yes. Please,” he adds on afterthought, because he may be repulsive and deviant but he isn’t discourteous. 

Leonard glances down at his coffee. When he speaks, his voice is falsely light. “I don’t know if I can wait another month to see you again.”

“Two weeks?” Hartley ventures, his mouth running ahead of his brain. It earns him a sweet, under-the-lashes glance that sets his heart fluttering out of rhythm. 

“I’d like that,” Leonard agrees.


	7. Chapter 7

In the interim, unfortunately, Hartley has dinner with his family. The night begins well (Jerrie corners and interrogates him), but over dinner, the conversation takes a turn for the worse. 

“Hartley.” It’s his mother who speaks, in her ‘bad news’ tone. He kneads his legs until the healing cuts flare with pain. “Jerrie tells me you’ve been spending time with Mayor Snart.”

Hartley shoots a betrayed look at Jerrie. She sinks down in her seat and signs, 'It slipped out. Didn’t tell them _why.'_

“He wanted to talk about some of Rathaway Industries’ upcoming projects.” The show of dismissiveness feels like too much. Surely, Hartley thinks, they can see through such a paper-thin façade. “Now that Zoom is gone, he wants to rebuild Central City stronger—and more environmentally friendly—than before.” 

His father offers a begrudging smile. “After all this time, you’ve finally learned to network.” 

Hartley bristles. His social skills (or lack thereof) have been a point of contention between them for years. Even with his mother present to mediate, he’s not eager to have another argument about it. “It’s my duty to the company. To you.” 

His father tilts his head, acknowledging the point. “It is,” he agrees, “but there’s more to it than that. You should know by now, Hartley, that a company’s worth isn’t decided solely by the ingenuity of the products. A lot of its reputation is built off the backs of its associates.” 

“You’re saying the mayor is disreputable,” Hartley concludes. He isn’t ready for this conversation. With a week to script, maybe; caught unawares like this, he’ll end up panicking and saying more than he means to. 

“I’m saying a company that prides itself on endorsing family values shouldn’t be openly supportive of a deviant.” It’s characteristically blunt. Hartley can appreciate that much; with his father, one never wonders where they stand. 

Jerrie chips in. “All the scientists say gay is in the brain, like autism. I don’t think he’s deviant, just different.”

Hartley raises his eyebrows. It’s a clever argument, so much so that he assumes she scripted it and saved it for maximum effect. For their father to damn Leonard as broken, he would have to admit that he thinks the same of Jerrie. 

“Jerrie, hush now,” their mother chides. “It isn’t the same. You’re too young to understand sexuality; it’s more complicated than just what’s in your brain.”

“I like the mayor.” It’s a dangerous thing to admit, but Hartley wants to redirect their attention before Jerrie reaches the end of her script. “He’s easy to talk to, and he has phenomenal ideas about ways to improve Central City.” 

His father sighs. “You’re a grown man, Hartley, and I can’t stop you doing whatever you’re going to do, but the next time you see him, it won’t be in an official capacity. It will be entirely personal, and if he propositions you, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”

There goes Hartley’s ‘good little Rathaway Industries spokesperson’ excuse. In the future, he’ll have to navigate his family’s suspicions and any unfortunate rumors on his own. He’s that much closer to accidentally outing himself. This ought to make him call the whole thing off, but the thought of Leonard’s hesitant smile kills that idea before it’s properly formed. He’ll be careful. He’ll have to be.


	8. Chapter 8

Leonard’s house is charmingly modest—a little two-story with crisp, modern lines. Hartley stands and gawks until a tall, burly man walks up to him. 

“Are you here to see the mayor?” 

Hartley makes an embarrassing squeak. “Eep! Yes, yes, I am.” 

The man peers at him with too-keen eyes. He must see something of which he approves, because he grunts and beckons Hartley toward the door. “C’mon. He’s expecting you.”

Hartley follows him through a spacious entryway, along a dimly-lit, tiled hall, to a study. The moment they step through the doorway, Hartley releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. The warm incandescent light of the study envelops him like an embrace. Soft fawn-colored carpeting muffles his footsteps. The walls are a matching muted brown, which gives the whole room a cozy, hideaway feel. 

“Hartley.” Leonard is at his desk. Upon seeing Hartley, he gets to his feet and holds out a hand. Hesitantly, Hartley clasps it. “I’m glad you made it.”

“Thank you for having me.” He’s too out of place to make eye contact. Instead, he glances around the room. Everything, from the quality of the light to the muted tones of the photographs on the wall, seems designed to put people at ease. He can’t tell if it’s intended for guests or if it’s designed to relieve the stress Leonard must bring home every day. 

“I see you met Mick,” Leonard coaxes gently. He casts the burly man a gentle smile that’s returned with a small head-tilt. It’s the kind of motion born of familiarity, and it makes Hartley feel like an intruder. No doubt Leonard is perfectly happy with the people in his life. He certainly doesn’t need Hartley’s presence. 

“Uh, yessir.” Hartley offers Mick a lopsided smile. “I’m sorry. I should have brought some kind of gift.”

Leonard smiles indulgently in such a way that Hartley feels suddenly dizzy. Mick snorts. “The mayor’s not one for ceremony, kid.” He lays a massive, warm hand on Hartley’s shoulder. “I’ll leave you alone now. Have a good visit.”

Mick shuts the door behind him. Without the harsher fluorescent light of the hallway, the warm incandescent light transports them to some safe little pocket dimension. Hartley feels as though he’s stepped into a dream—nothing is real, everything is possible, and nothing he does can be held against him. 

“We don’t have to stay here,” Leonard offers with a lopsided smile. “The living room might be more comfortable? Or perhaps the kitchen, if you’d like something to eat?”

“This is nice.” No force in the world can remove Hartley from this safe little dream-room until the visit ends. 

“Then please, sit.” Leonard gestures at a sofa that, like the rest of the room, is a soft, warm brown. Obediently, Hartley sinks onto the too-plush cushions. He means to perch, ready to spring to his feet if he takes up too much space, but the sofa promptly tries to swallow him whole. Leonard laughs. “It’s not the most comfortable of couches, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, no, this is good.” Hartley nestles against the too-soft arm of the sofa, keeping his eyes on Leonard the whole time to ensure he’s doing the right thing. He’s only sort of prepared for Leonard to forsake his desk chair in favor of sitting beside him. “O-oh, hi.”

“Hi,” Leonard echoes. He holds out his hand, palm-up, and asks, “Is this all right? I know you can’t in public…”

Hesitantly, Hartley intertwines their fingers. Leonard’s palm is warm and callused, his fingers long and strong and deft. He hasn’t held hands with anyone except Jerrie in…he can’t even remember how long. “This, this is good.” 

“You’ve never even had this, have you?” Leonard watches him with keen, attentive eyes. His thumb begins stroking slowly along the side of Hartley’s forefinger. “The chance to sit with someone who’s interested in you?” 

Hartley shakes his head. He still feels off-balance every time the mayor alludes to liking him. “I haven’t had a chance. School, and then work, and…I knew I couldn’t, so I just let myself get lost in anything else.” 

Leonard nods. “I know how that feels,” he agrees. “It’s overwhelming, isn’t it, the first time you realize you don’t have to be alone?” 

Hartley huddles closer against his arm. It’s pathetic—he’s _pathetic,_ clinging unreservedly to the first man to touch him—but it feels too good to stop. “I never dared…”

“No.” Leonard tilts his head. “Of course you wouldn’t. With parents like yours, it’s a wonder you were able to acknowledge how you felt.” 

“I don’t blame them!” Hartley hastens to say. He almost says ‘they just want to protect me’ before realizing he’s never wondered what they’re trying to protect him from. 

“Don’t you?” There’s no judgment in Leonard’s tone; he’s genuinely curious. “I loathed my father for the way he treated me.”

Unbidden, a sob tears its way free from Hartley’s throat. He claps his free hand over his mouth and confesses, “Sometimes, when they’re not there, I hate them _so much._ And then I hate myself for hating them, because they’ve given me everything…”

“Except the right to be yourself,” Leonard coaxes. Again, it doesn’t sound like he’s nudging Hartley to blame them. Instead, he seems to want to help him pick apart the complicated mess of love and loathing he feels toward his parents. 

“It’s a small price to pay.” Hartley drops his free hand to his thigh and kneads vigorously. He shouldn’t be saying all this—especially not so soon. He’ll scare Leonard away. (Although that might be better: let him know what a disaster he’s interested in and watch how quickly he runs. Cruelly, Hartley thinks it might be exactly the sort of object lesson he needs in why he’ll never be loved.) 

“Why?” Leonard asks. “I know why I stayed, but what’s so important that you’re willing to stay in the closet?”

“My sister.” Hartley doesn’t miss the understanding that flashes across Leonard’s face. “Jerrie, she…she has it worse than me, I have to stay to help her. She’s autistic, and the way our parents treat her—it just makes me sick. I would rather be alone and closeted for the rest of my life than leave her to deal with them without my help.” 

Leonard nods. “I stayed for Lisa—my little sister. I was the buffer between her and my father, and that was worth more than a partner would ever be.” He squeezes Hartley’s hand. Whatever Hartley was thinking turns to static in response to the pressure. “I understand why you have to stay.”

Hartley tries, mostly in vain, to gather his thoughts. “Where is she now? Lisa.”

“She’s a senator.” Leonard grins. “Central City got too small for her—she had to take on the national stage. I couldn’t be prouder…although I wish she was able to come home more often.” His smile dulls into something rueful and soft. Hartley leans against him, trying to provide the kind of pressure that helps when he’s upset. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You didn’t.” Leonard slips his hand out of Hartley’s grasp. At first, Hartley is alarmed—what did he do wrong?—until Leonard wraps that arm around his waist and squeezes. Panic vanishes into a low hum of _yesgoodcomfortsafe_ that makes him melt against Leonard’s side. “I miss her, but it doesn’t upset me anymore. I know she’s happy where she is.” 

Hartley wonders how much more daring he would be if he could say the same of Jerrie. When, one day, she’s grown, in a house of her own, and safe from their parents’ judgment—could he come out then? Would he have the strength, or would he remain as miserably cowardly as he’s been all his life? 

“If you’re going to think so intensely, feel free to share,” Leonard teases. 

“It’s nothing.” He shakes his head, dismissive of (almost) the whole train of thought. The notion of cowardice sticks, and if asked, it’s that thought he’ll blame for his hesitant, “May I—if you don’t mind, can I kiss you?”

Leonard’s gaze drops to Hartley’s lips. He feels suddenly shivery and nervous. He asked for this, so why is he terrified? “It’s your first, isn’t it?” 

Hartley nods. (Pathetic, he thinks to himself, to make it into his twenties without ever being kissed.) 

One of Leonard’s hands slips up to cradle his cheek. It’s only a prelude, but the gentle touch makes Hartley’s eyes flutter closed and his mind go hazy. He’s fairly sure Leonard murmurs some kind of praise before pressing their lips together, but he can barely hear it over the rush of blood in his ears. 

The first touch of lips is nothing special. Mostly it’s weird, foreign to him—too much closeness, not enough safe space around him. Then Leonard’s lips part just enough to play gently with his lower lip, and Hartley realizes dimly why people like kissing. Add to that the careful pressure of Leonard’s thumb rubbing circles on his cheek…Hartley would happily keep kissing him for a long time. 

The door opens. Hartley flings himself back in a panic. _Someone saw_ plays on a loop in his mind until Mick rumbles, “Hey Snart, Mark’s here.”

“You could knock.” Leonard casts a despairing glance at the door. 

Obediently, Mick raps his knuckles against the doorframe. “Hey Snart…”

“I heard you the first time.” Leonard turns back to Hartley, his gaze apologetic. “I’m sorry. It seems rude to make you wait while I…”

“No, I should go.” However much time he’s spent here, it’s too much. Someone will notice. Someone will put it together. “I hope your meeting goes well, and I’m sorry for…that.” 

“Sorry?” Leonard cradles his cheek. His thumb returns to rubbing gentle circles into the skin. “Don’t be sorry. As first kisses go, that was so far from the worst I’ve had.” 

He’s being polite. That doesn’t stop the flush of pleasure that makes Hartley happy-rock. “Oh. I…I would, that is, if you don’t mind, it would be nice to do this again.”

“Two weeks’ time?” Leonard invites. “We could have dinner.”

Oh dear. That sounds less than appealing, only because Hartley knows how revolting he looks when he eats. Against his better judgment, he finds himself saying, “I’d like that.”

While Leonard hastens off to find Mark (whoever that is), Mick shows Hartley to the door. Just before he leaves, Mick murmurs, “You know, the mayor’s a sweet guy. Give him a chance, he’ll show that to you. Fuck it up, and I’ll give you all the payback he never would.”

Hartley almost asks for details. (He’s lost count of how many times his depression has led him to envision being beaten to within an inch of his life. Hearing Mick offer details would only feed those fantasies.) Instead, for fear of such a question getting back to Leonard, he murmurs, “Duly noted.” 

Mick grumbles a bit and sees him out the door.


	9. Chapter 9

Dinner goes well. At the end, sated by good food and better company, Hartley dares to ask for another kiss. One kiss turns to several, deep and lazy and sweet. When they finally break apart, Leonard looks as dazed and breathless as Hartley feels. 

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs. 

“We should.” Hartley can barely bring himself to say the words. Stopping is the last thing on his mind. 

Leonard answers his tone more than his words. “I don’t want to, either.” 

“Kiss me again?” Hartley’s eyes flick to Leonard’s lips, plump and bitten-pink. He shouldn’t ask for more, but his self-control deserts him in the worst possible way every time they’re together.

“Happily.” Leonard draws him into another lazy kiss. His thumb presses gently into the hollow behind Hartley’s ear. The pressure makes Hartley moan low in his throat and tip his head back, surrendering completely to whatever Leonard wants. He’s not even able to consider that he should be scared; trusting him so deeply feels right. 

“Please,” he murmurs as they part. He doesn’t know what he wants, only that the absence of it hurts. 

Leonard pulls back and studies him with hazy, half-lidded eyes. Whatever he sees (and Hartley can’t imagine what) makes him murmur, “Beautiful.” 

“O-oh.” Hartley ought to protest—he’s not and never will be—but he can’t. If Leonard says he’s beautiful, he must be. It’s as simple as that. (It won’t be later. He’s self-aware enough to know that. For now, though, the unhesitating certainty that Leonard is right seeps into his very bones.) 

“You, uh.” Leonard gives himself a little shake. “I should probably let you go. If I keep you too late, people will wonder.” 

He’s right, of course. Hartley makes his goodbyes, more regretful than he’s been any of the other times they’ve parted (and that says something). Leonard sees him to the door and, before he steps outside, gives him one last kiss. “I hope to see you soon.”

“You will,” Hartley promises. 

He barely remembers the drive back to his flat or the elevator ride to the correct floor. He only realizes what he’s doing when he finds himself leaning against the inside of his front door, staring giddily at the ceiling. Not for the first time, he’s grateful he moved out. The thought of explaining to his parents why he looks freshly kissed is enough to chase away the last remnants of dreamy good cheer. 

“What the fuck is wrong with me?” He gives himself a vigorous shake. “God, I made him kiss me! He kept asking to stop and I didn’t let him.”

He thinks back to the earnest way Leonard said “Beautiful.” Perhaps he _had_ enjoyed their kisses. Even conceding that, however reluctantly, leaves Hartley with a second problem: he shouldn’t have believed Leonard’s every word with that level of certainty. He’s put his faith in authority before and been hurt because of it every time. Nothing Leonard has done to this point should make Hartley trust him so completely. 

“It was a lapse in judgment,” he decides. “I got carried away. Next time, I’ll know better.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh heck. Things are about to get very depressing (cutting in this chapter, suicide attempts in future chapters) and they don’t get better until chapter 15. Everything will be warned for, so please, skip whatever you need to! This chapter features a cutting scene at the end (starting with “He makes it home” and continuing through the end)—don’t read if that could be triggering.

Next time, he does nothing of the sort. 

Leonard invites him to dinner again. They eat and talk, and for the first time in a long time, Hartley feels comfortable enough to laugh. While they linger over dessert, the sky outside darkens and sends down a gentle rain. Hartley casts occasional glances out the window. He’s always been partial to spring rains, and nothing feels better than the ability to watch a light rainfall while safe and dry. 

“You like the rain?” Leonard intuits. 

“Huh?” Hartley realizes how long he’s been staring out the window. “Oh, yes, sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry.” Leonard holds out his hand. Hesitantly, Hartley takes it and allows Leonard to draw him to his feet. “Come with me.”

They step out onto the patio. Hartley shivers, feeling vulnerable without a jacket or umbrella; Leonard grins and tips his head back. “This is perfect.”

The longer they stand there, the less Hartley feels the chill. It is, as Leonard says, perfect weather, although he can’t quite fathom what they’re doing out here. “Perfect for what?”

Unexpectedly, he finds himself clasped in strong arms. One of Leonard’s hands braces the small of his back; the other twines with his. There’s the barest whisper of space between them. “Dancing,” Leonard murmurs. 

Hartley’s brain short-circuits. This is very close—he seldom tolerates anyone in his space this way. (It’s one of the reasons he doesn’t dance at parties.) With Leonard, it’s wholly and enjoyably different. “Yes,” he murmurs. His glasses are so covered in droplets that it’s hard to see, but he can’t take his eyes off Leonard’s lips. “It is.” 

They sway to an imaginary melody. Hartley falls into a trance, lulled by the slow, steady rocking. He barely notices drifting closer until their lips meet. It’s the perfect rain-slick kiss. Hartley thinks lightning flashes somewhere in the distance, but he’s too lost to the kiss to care. 

“Oh.” Parting should return some of his clarity. Instead, he feels as dreamy-slow and unable to think as he had during the kiss. “Len, I want…”

Leonard’s thumb skims over his cheek, cool from the rain. “What?” he coaxes. 

“I want _this.”_ It hurts to say. The ache of it settles in his chest, high enough to choke him like fear but deep enough to feel like regret. He can’t want this; it’s betraying Jerrie and his parents and every good thing in his life. “I want to stay with you and dance in the rain and have lovely conversations every night and I _can’t_ and it hurts.” His thoughts spiral away from him. The further beyond his control they go, the tighter and more sensitive his skin feels, until Leonard’s touch feels like it might split him in two. He needs to withdraw. 

“Easy.” Leonard lets him go. Even through rain-beaded glasses, Hartley can see the worried furrow in his brow and the deep kindness in his eyes. 

“I don’t know what to choose.” That’s the crux of it. He _has_ to choose Jerrie; he owes it to her, she’s worth every good thing he doesn’t deserve and he knows that. Just this once, though, he wants to delude himself into thinking he’s worthy of love. It’s selfish, he’s selfish and foul and disgusting and he needs to leave…

“I can’t make that choice for you.” Leonard takes his hand. It’s too much, but then he squeezes and the pressure is better. “But this will be a safe space for you as long as you want it.” Hartley thinks he hears a plaintive, unspoken ‘as long as you want _me,’_ and his heart breaks. Leonard mustn’t think Hartley doesn’t want him. He does, more than he’s ever wanted anything; that’s the problem. 

“I should—I ought to go. I’ll think on it,” he promises. (He will; in all likelihood, he’ll obsess over this choice until he pushes himself into another spiral.) 

“I hope you’ll be back soon.” Leonard brushes their lips together just enough to feel the warmth of the touch. “Take care of yourself, Hartley.” 

He makes it home before breaking down. With no one to turn to and no help to pull himself out of the negative spiral, he locks himself in the bathroom and pulls out his pocket knife. “This has gone far enough,” he tells his reflection. God, he’s repulsive—how Leonard can bear to look at him, much less kiss him, is a mystery. “You’re not allowed to want more. You’ve taken it too far as it is. If your parents find out? They’ll disown you, you’ll fail Jerrie, you’ll be fired and they might convince the landlord to kick you out, and then what do you think will happen? You think Leonard will want you if you’re even more useless than you are now?”

A deep breath steadies him, calms most of the frantic fear. Slowly, methodically, he strips out of his trousers, perches on the edge of the tub, and presses the blade to his thigh. 

“You’re going to stop this.” The first cut is clarity and order and _right._ This is what he deserves. “You should have stopped weeks ago. Tell Leonard you’ve made your choice. He’ll respect you, because he’s better than you deserve and you should know that.” 

He makes a total of four cuts, two on each thigh (asymmetry bothers him, even in this). By the time the last one stretches open, trickling vibrant red, he feels more at peace than he has in weeks. This, if nothing else, is easy and right and what he deserves.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, this chapter got away from me. Warning for various types of homophobia expressed by the elder Rathaways (slurs from Osgood and advocating for conversion therapy from Rachel) and a suicide attempt. It'll get better from here, I promise, but this is Not Good.

The next day, Hartley gets an odd call from his mother asking him to come for dinner. Her tone alarms him, but lacking any context for why (and, frankly, unable to identify what in particular alarms him about it) he decides he’s misinterpreted something. 

Oh, how he wishes that was the case. 

Immediately upon arriving at his parents’ house, he’s tackle-hugged by Jerrie. “Hart, they know, it’s all over online, they’re _so mad—”_

Hartley draws a blank. What could possibly be all over online? He and Leonard have been discreet—in fact, save for their first few meetings at Jitters, they’ve never left his house. “What?”

Jerrie thrusts her phone at him. On the screen is a photo of him kissing Leonard as they danced in the rain last night. His heart stops. He’d thought it a flash of lightning—it was a camera flash, someone was watching, oh _God…_

“They’ll have put it together, then,” he says with a calmness he certainly doesn’t feel. “All the times I went over there, everything.”

“I’ll stand up for you,” Jerrie proclaims, setting her round little face into a determined scowl. “You just want to be loved and that’s _not_ bad, no matter who you love!” 

“No.” No matter what happens, Jerrie has to stay on their parents’ good side. It’s not good for her, but it’s the only way Hartley can guarantee she’ll be safe. “I’ll take care of it. That’s what big brothers are for, right?”

At dinner, he doesn’t bother to serve himself. If something goes wrong, he’ll be able to leave without feeling wasteful. Jerrie tries to pass him a bread roll, but he waves her off. “I’m okay, little bean.” 

There’s no pretense of small talk. As soon as everyone has served themselves, his father demands, “Is there something you’d like to tell us?”

That’s not a good tone. Hartley can already feel himself shutting down. He manages a terse, “Judging by your tone, you already know.” 

“My _tone?”_ he scoffs. “I had to find out from the blog of some meta-obsessed sensationalist that my son is a deviant, and you’re worried about my _tone?”_

“All right.” Hartley doesn’t see a way around it. “I kissed the mayor. Happy now?” 

“Happy?” His father slams his cutlery against the table. Hartley jumps. “Why should I be happy that my son is a sodomite?” 

Hartley curls in on himself. Bad. This is bad. He’s bad. Without thinking, he drops a hand to his thigh and kneads at yesterday’s cuts. Pain spikes through his leg—he’s reopened them. Good. 

“Osgood!” his mother chides. 

Jerrie reaches over, catches the hand kneading at Hartley’s thigh, and squeezes as though he’s the only thing keeping her from a tumble into the abyss. He squeezes in reply. “Ask permission to leave the table,” he murmurs. “You shouldn’t have to stay for this.” 

Her fingernails dig into his palm. It’s almost certainly unintentional, but Hartley relishes the pinpricks of pain as though she, too, is chiding him. 

“Hartley.” His mother turns soft, wide eyes on him. “We just want what’s best for you. This is…honey, it’s dangerous. I just want you to have a normal life—a normal marriage.”

“I know.” Hartley uses the hand that’s still clutching Jerrie’s to prod at his thigh. Dark, wet blotches have appeared on his trousers where the cuts are bleeding, and when he rubs at them, the back of his hand comes away red. “I can’t, I’ve tried, and the mayor is so kind that I _want_ to be with him.”

He can’t bear the soft, sad look on his mother’s face. “Honey, all this time you were going through this alone. What if you had someone to help?” 

Part of him lights up at the offer. He already hates himself; with someone to remind him of how repulsive his desires are every time he tries to stray, he could be better. If nothing else, he could act the part of the dutiful son, stay with Jerrie, be alone but at least be useful. Mere weeks ago, he’d have agreed without a second thought. Now, though, there’s a small, vocal part of him, fed on gentle kisses, sweet words, and unconditional approval, that balks at the idea. He may not deserve Leonard’s affection, but he’s too addicted to it to simply stop. “I…”

Jerrie squeezes his hand to get his attention. “Hart, remember, gay is in the brain.” She says it like a benediction, like permission. 

“I don’t want to have to change.”

It all devolves into yelling after that. Hartley shuts down completely, so much so that he’s barely aware of what he’s saying. He hears his father’s words, each one honed like a knife, building to the executioner’s blow: “If you want to continue this degenerate lifestyle, then you’re no son of mine.” 

The next thing he’s aware of is running. It’s a long way from his parents’ house back to his apartment (this was by design—he wanted breathing room) but he doesn’t think he could sit still for a cab ride. The further he runs and the more the exertion hurts, the less frantic, angry energy is left buzzing under his skin. 

By the time he arrives at the apartment building, he’s out of breath. His trousers are bloodstained (running with new cuts, it transpires, is not a good idea) and he feels lightheaded. It’s all he can do to stumble into the elevator and hit the button for the correct floor. 

The elevator stops too soon. Hartley registers the doors opening, realizes dimly this isn’t his floor, and then finds himself sliding down the wall, unbalanced by the change in momentum. The person getting into the elevator gasps, catches him, and eases him to the ground. 

“I gotcha, kid.” It’s a rough, gravelly voice—much like Mick’s, he thinks hazily—but warm and kind. Hartley blinks up at his rescuer without truly seeing them. When did he get so dizzy? “Hey, c’mon. Keep looking at me. I gotcha.” 

At least, Hartley thinks blurrily, he was finally (if somewhat indirectly) able to kill himself. That was always going to be the best way to solve an impossible problem. He hopes Jerrie knows how much he loved her and only regrets not being able to say goodbye.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually publish two chapters in a day, but with the way the last chapter ended, it felt rude to leave it there. This chapter isn't that much more hopeful - suicidal ideation, all kinds of self-hatred, and a mention of child abuse - but Hartley is alive (and I promise it will get better for him).

Hartley wakes up. This is so unexpected that he wonders if he dreamed the last several hours. 

“Hey.” That isn’t a voice he knows. He forces himself to open his eyes and finds not the warm safety of his bedroom but an austere, sterile white room. Fuck. That was real, and he’s in a hospital. This isn’t good. “You’re awake.”

He turns to look at his nurse, a motherly brown-haired woman in vibrant magenta scrubs. Her name badge says ‘Sarah.’ Above the badge, close to her collar, is a tiny pin with the gay and trans flags. After the day he’s had, seeing the tiny enamel flags brings tears to his eyes. 

“So,” he says. His voice cracks, but other than that, he thinks he does an admirable job of hiding the sudden, inappropriate swell of emotion. “Stitches and a blood transfusion?”

She nods. 

“I’m sorry.” He doesn’t want to ask how much blood. It should have gone to someone who needed it more. “All of this was unnecessary. I was almost home, I could have taken care of myself.” He’s not sure whether he would have cleaned himself up or made absolutely sure he bled out. Either way, at least it would have been done in the privacy of his apartment. 

“How far did you run?” Sarah asks gently. 

“…Two miles?” It’s his best guess. He knew, at one point, precisely how far it is from his apartment to his parents’ house, but his thoughts are foggy and hard to control. He wonders if he’s been drugged. “How do you know I ran?” 

“You told me.”

Hartley doesn’t remember waking up. He can only imagine what he must have said if he wasn’t lucid enough to remember it. “If I say I feel better, am I allowed to leave?”

She shakes her head. “You’re on a seventy-two hour suicide watch.”

Under no circumstances will he spend three days in the hospital. He’ll wait until she leaves and then quietly discharge himself…or not, he realizes upon shifting his arms. “Why am I in restraints?”

“Protocol,” she explains with a sympathetic grimace. “They can be taken off if you have someone to watch you.”

Of course. He shifts so he’s no longer looking at her. It’s a childish way to express his irritation, especially given that it isn’t her fault, but he can see no other option. 

“Is there someone you want to call?” she offers. 

His first thought is Leonard. He has to keep from laughing aloud. If Leonard sees him like this, too pathetic to even die right, nothing in the world will convince him to stay. “No, that’s all right.” 

It’s perhaps three hours later that the door opens. A hospital volunteer pokes his head in and offers, “You have a visitor.”

Hartley sits up and skitters as far from the door as possible. The restraint tightens around his wrist to the point of dull, throbbing pain. “Who is it?” If it’s his parents come to gawk at their failure son one more time, he’ll do his utmost to turn them away. 

“Uh.” The volunteer makes a face as though he’s not paid enough for this. “It’s the mayor.”

That’s worse. Hartley doesn’t know how he heard, but now that he’s here, it would be rude to turn him away. “Uh…okay.”

Leonard steps into the room. The look of heartbroken pity in his eyes when he sees Hartley is too much to bear. “Hartley.” He rushes to the bedside. One of his slender hands cradles Hartley’s cheek, so tenderly Hartley flinches away. “What happened?”

“There are pictures online of us kissing,” he confesses. “My parents found out. Um, mistakes were made.” He glances down at his legs. They’re covered with a sheet, and under that are wrapped with bandages, but he can trace the precise location of the cuts that broke open. 

Leonard’s expression turns stormy. “They beat you?”

“No!” They’d have been within their rights, Hartley reminds himself. “They were so angry, and then I was upset and I just wanted it to stop.”

Leonard blanches. “You tried to kill yourself?”

“No. Yes. Kind of.” Out of habit, Hartley tries to rub his legs, but his cuffed hands won’t reach. Instead, he wriggles closer to the side of the bed so he can rub his right thigh. Leonard catches his hand and holds it tightly even when he tries to squirm away. “I had fresh cuts on my thighs and I ran for two miles and those two things apparently don’t mix.” 

Leonard squeezes his hand. “Oh Hartley. You could have called me, I’d have taken care of you—”

“I didn’t want to bother you.” He shrugs. If not for the man in the elevator, he would have made it to his apartment without disturbing anyone. Given that he’s most valuable when he’s quiet, this situation would have been ideal. “How did you find out?”

“The man who called the ambulance for you was Mark Mardon, who came to the house the first time you visited.” Slowly, Leonard eases the pressure on Hartley’s hand. He could try again to rub his cuts but finds he doesn’t want to. “He recognized you and called me once you were safe.” 

Hartley thinks back to the elevator. He can remember what happened but no sensory information—not what he saw and certainly not what he felt. “I’ll have to thank him,” he murmurs, knowing it’s expected of him.

“You wish he hadn’t found you,” Leonard intuits. Damn him for his ability to read Hartley’s moods. 

“This is too much.” Hartley glances around the room. “I’d have been fine at home.” 

“Mark said he found you covered in blood.” Leonard’s thumb rubs across Hartley’s knuckles. He watches the repetitive motion, lets it lull him into a sense of false calm. Nothing is all right, but with Leonard at his side, he can fool himself for a while. “You needed treated. And, honestly, Hartley, you could have died. Something has to give, or I—I’m afraid I’ll lose you.” 

Hartley glances up at him, reading the set of brows and mouth without making direct eye contact. “You really are afraid,” he realizes with no small amount of wonder. 

Leonard nods. “You’re important to me,” he says. “I don’t want to lose you.” 

Unbidden, laughter bubbles up in Hartley’s throat. When Leonard tilts his head, he explains, “I’ve never been important to anyone. I’ve been useful, that’s all. And I’ve certainly never had anyone mean so much to me that I’d defy my parents for them.”

Leonard raises shocked eyebrows. “You told them about us?”

“I didn’t have a choice. They found out from that photograph.” If Hartley ever finds the photographer, he has strong words he’d like to share with them. “But, um, I told them this is who I am and they don’t get to try to change me. And now they don’t have to deal with it anymore, because they made it perfectly clear that I’m not welcome unless I renounce my hideous homosexual ways and decide to be their good little boy again.” He blinks, shocked at the words pouring out of his mouth. He has to be drugged. He’s not this talkative otherwise. 

“Oh, Hartley, I’m sorry.” Leonard squeezes his hand. This time, he squeezes back. It brings a faint, gentle smile to Leonard’s lips. 

“I’ve been pushing for space for years,” he admits. “If not for Jerrie, I’d have left and not looked back. The only thing I regret in all this is that I’ve lost her.” He didn’t say goodbye. That knowledge twists in his heart like a knife. 

“You should never have been put in this position.” Leonard brushes the fingers of his free hand over Hartley’s cheek. It feels like the prelude to a kiss, and Hartley’s heart stutters because of it. He’s instantly lightheaded. That would be why the babbling, then; even after the transfusion, he’s still hypovolemic. “I’m sorry for that.”

“It wasn’t your fault.” He nuzzles closer into Leonard’s gentle touch. _Pathetic,_ he reminds himself, but it feels too good to stop. “I…I know I’ll regret it later, but for now I’m just glad it’s over.”

To his shock, Leonard stays until the nurse who brings evening med pass coaxes him out. Before he leaves, he presses a lingering kiss to Hartley’s brow. “I love you,” he murmurs. How he can say it so openly, Hartley may never understand. “And I can’t make this right, but I’ll be here for you for whatever you need.”

Hartley watches him go. Even though he was terrified of a visit, having it end hurts. Foolishly, he hopes Leonard will be back tomorrow. (Of course he won’t, he reminds himself. Why would he want to come back?) 

He’s jarred from his thoughts by the nurse, who holds out a little paper cup of medicine. “I don’t take nightly medication,” he says, bewildered. “What is this?”

“Ibuprofen for the pain,” she explains, “and the doctor has started you on an antidepressant.”

Hartley blinks. He remembers the doctor, a short, curt woman who spoke to him for all of five minutes. She’d asked about his cutting tendencies and a short mental health history, but he’d assumed it was just to ensure he wouldn’t be back after discharge. “I’m not depressed.” Depression implies that his view of himself is overly harsh, and it isn’t. He has a laundry list of failures that more than justify every negative thing he thinks about himself. 

“The doctor seemed to think you should give it a try,” the nurse coaxes. 

He doesn’t have a choice, he realizes. Anyway, if he’s not depressed, the medication won’t alter anything. Or perhaps it would only have side effects, which would be amusing. “Okay.” 

He submits to taking the medication. Some five minutes after the nurse leaves, a horrifying thought strikes him. Even though they’re demonstrably justified, what if the medication _does_ alter his thought patterns? What would he do? Being critical of himself is the only way not to be more repulsive than he already is—if he doesn’t hate himself, what kind of horrible things will he think he has the right to do? 

“It’s one pill,” he murmurs. A little wriggling presses his right thigh against his palm, and he’s able to knead the bandaged cuts. There’s a twinge of pain, but it’s dampened, dull, compared to what he’s used to. “It won’t completely rewrite my neural pathways. I just won’t take the next one.” 

To be safe, he falls asleep reciting as many negative things as he can think of. This is good. As long as he remembers to hate himself, at least he can’t possibly get any worse.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter isn't as dark as some of the previous ones, but Osgood goes out of his way to make Hartley's life difficult and Hartley has a moment of suicidal ideation (starting at "Hartley spends close to two hours" and ending when "There's a knock at the door").

To Hartley’s regret, he has to take the next pill and the one after that, which is clearly (if implicitly) the action on which his discharge hinges. Furthermore, when they find out he intends to walk the mile-and-change back to his apartment, they call Leonard to come pick him up. (At least, he consoles himself, they don’t try to call his parents.) 

When Leonard arrives, Hartley tries to hurry out the door. He’s delayed by the doctor, who gives Leonard a slip of paper and says something to the effect of “Make sure he takes his pills.” Damn it. He’d hoped he could stop once he left the hospital. 

“We don’t have to fill that,” he says on their way out. 

“Hartley.” Leonard takes his hand and squeezes gently. “Take the antidepressants, please—for me if not for yourself. I can’t watch you go through that again.” 

Reluctantly, he allows Leonard to drive them to the pharmacy. When they arrive and the pharmacist fills the medication, Hartley has to do a double-take. 

“It shouldn’t cost that much. Is it not covered by my insurance?” Too late, he realizes, “Right. I’m probably unemployed now. Oh, I really don’t want to see the hospital bill.” 

Leonard stares at him. “What?” 

“Perk of working for a family company. If there’s a family dispute, you’ve just pissed off your boss.” Hartley thanks the pharmacist, tells him he’s changed his mind about filling the prescription, and tries to tug Leonard away from the counter. Leonard doesn’t move. “Come on, it’s fine. I’m not going to pay for medication I don’t need when I have hospital bills to worry about. I’m well-off, but not so much that I’ll be able to handle paying three days’ worth of care at full cost.” 

“He fired you because you came out to him.” It’s not a question. 

“Yeah, but I can’t say I didn’t see it coming.” Hartley shrugs. He knew he stood to lose his job if his parents ever found out about his sexuality. Being unemployed makes him that much more of a burden, but aside from that, it’s not worth remarking on. 

“No, you don’t understand.” Leonard squeezes his hand. “That’s illegal by state law; it has been for years. Your father just made a mistake he’ll live to regret.” 

Hartley balks. “I’m not going to sue my father! He’d just bury the lawsuit—I’ve watched him do it before. I knew this was a risk, it’s not something I’m upset about. It’s okay, we can just let it go.” 

Leonard studies him. “Of course you don’t have the energy,” he murmurs. “You’ve just gone through more than anyone should have to endure. All right. We can talk about this later.” Then, to Hartley’s bewilderment, he pulls out his phone, taps a few buttons, and holds it out to the pharmacist. “You still take GoodRx, I hope?”

“…What’s a GoodRx?” Hartley asks. It's a coupon, evidently; the price drops to just over ten dollars. He fishes a twenty out of his wallet and tucks the prescription bag inside his jacket. 

“Coupons for prescription medications.” Leonard offers him a playful grin. “I forget, you’ve probably never had to worry about medication costs before.”

“I’ve never had a prescription medication before.” Hartley shrugs. Save his absurd, abnormal brain, he’s perfectly healthy. “That’s good to know.” 

When they arrive at Hartley’s apartment, he finds an eviction notice on his door. This, like his dismissal from Rathaway Industries, was an expected consequence. He simply sighs, taps a finger against the notice, and murmurs, “My father never tolerated delays.”

“How could he have done this?” Leonard stares at the notice. “He’s not your landlord.”

“No, but he’s powerful, and nobody wants to cross him.” Hartley unlocks the door. According to the notice, he has the rest of the day to pack. Come nightfall, he’ll need to find a hotel. “He would have asked the landlord for a favor, and come on. Who’s going to refuse?” 

“This is petty.” Hartley has never seen this particular expression on Leonard’s face before. He looks positively murderous. “He’s taken your family and your job from you, why have you evicted?”

“He wants me to realize how dependent I am on him and come crawling back.” Uncharacteristic bitterness seeps into the words. None-too-kindly, Hartley reminds himself that if not for Leonard, he probably would be crawling back with promises to see whatever conversion counselor they deemed necessary. “I’ll be fine, I can stay in a hotel tonight and go apartment-hunting tomorrow.”

Quietly, Leonard invites, “You could stay with me. I mean, my guest room is available for however long you’d need it, and I wouldn’t mind your company. Especially since your current predicament is, in a way, my fault.” 

He’s being courteous, Hartley decides, and courtesy dictates a polite refusal. Instead, what comes out of his mouth is, “If…if it’s all right, could I? Just for tonight.” 

This is how he finds himself at Leonard’s house. All of his possessions have been fit into a few bags; these are taken away under Mick’s watchful eye. Leonard shows him to the guest room, which is decorated in muted warm browns, like the office. It gives the room the same safe, comfortable pocket-dimension feel. Fleetingly, Hartley wonders how far the freedom of that pocket-dimension safeness would stretch. Not far, he reminds himself; he's imposing. He needs to take up as little space as possible for as short a time as he can manage. 

“You’re making faces,” Leonard coaxes. “Is something wrong?”

“No!” He sets his suitcase in the middle of the room, well away from the furniture. “No, it’s perfect.” 

“It’s yours for as long as you need it.” Leonard’s fingers brush lightly over the back of Hartley’s hand. Instinctively, Hartley laces their hands together. Just as quickly, he withdraws. He’s already intruding; there’s no need to be clingy. “Make yourself comfortable.” 

It’s a dismissal. Leonard wants some time alone—of course he does. Hartley waits until the door swings shut; then he settles on the floor beside his suitcase. None of this is his to touch. He needs to stay on the floor where he’ll make a minimum of mess, keep himself as tightly compacted as possible, and not make a nuisance of himself. If Leonard wants company, he’ll seek him out. Until then, he’ll stay put. 

Hartley spends close to two hours browsing apartment listings on his phone and lapsing into quiet self-reproach. “Look what you’ve done,” he murmurs while scrolling through one-bedroom listings in the queerest neighborhood of Central City. (If he won’t recant, he might as well lean as far into his new identity as possible—maybe it will keep his father from interfering.) “You’ve lost Jerrie and your parents and your job and your home, and now you’ve got hospital bills and you’re burdening poor Leonard. You should have just died. Think how happy everyone would be.” 

He allows himself a moment to bask in the imagined happiness, then reminds himself, “And _you_ took that away from them, you fucking coward. You went where you knew people would see you and stop you and now look. You’re not dead, and that’s a fucking shame.” 

There’s a knock at the door. He snaps his mouth closed, bolts to his feet, and calls, “Come in!” 

Leonard peers around the edge of the door. When he sees Hartley standing beside his suitcase, he tilts his head. “Are you leaving so soon?” 

“No.” Damn everything. He should have said yes. “I was going to get something out and I got distracted.” 

Leonard smiles and holds out his hand. “If you’re hungry, dinner’s ready.”

Hartley takes his hand without a thought. He’s not hungry, but he’s being invited to come out and do things. Of course he won’t say no. 

Dinner is peaceful. Leonard distracts him with talk of upcoming events—a ceremony to welcome Jesse Quick as the city’s new defender, the surprising repentance of former CSI Singh, now “the Chemist,” and the upcoming spring party at the precinct. 

“You’ve never seemed like one for parties,” Leonard muses, “but would you go if you were invited?”

Hartley’s mind blanks. He’s being invited to a party? Leonard is right, he doesn’t like parties, but it’s rude to refuse an invitation. (Anyway, if he was going on Leonard’s arm…he might be all right with that.) “Um, I, yes?”

“You don’t have to.” Leonard skims his thumb over Hartley’s cheekbone. “I just wondered.”

“No, I want to go.” As he says the words, he realizes they’re true. He lost everything for a hidden romance. Now that he has nothing to lose, why not be seen in public with Leonard? “I want to be with you.”

Unfortunately, the sweet mood evaporates at the end of the meal, when Leonard holds up a pill. “Remember to take your medicine,” he murmurs. 

Hartley balks. He doesn’t want any more pills. If there’s even a chance they could alter his self-assessment, they’re not safe. He needs to be critical; it’s the only way to improve. “I can’t.” 

“You paid for them,” Leonard reminds him gently. “You might as well take it.” He presses the pill into Hartley’s palm and coaxes, “If not for yourself, take it for me.”

Reluctantly, Hartley swallows it. He doesn’t want medication, but he has to be good for Leonard. If he doesn’t do as he’s told, he might lose the only person he has left. 

Somehow—Hartley loses track a little, still locked in the obedience-or-else headspace that reminds him too much of his parents—they end up curled on the sofa together, Hartley’s head in Leonard’s lap. It’s good. It’s safe, if only because all Hartley needs to do is keep his mouth shut and be cuddly. How badly can he fuck that up? 

“Do you want to talk?” Leonard’s fingers brush gently through Hartley’s hair. He purrs and leans into the caress. 

“This is good.” It comes out quieter than he means it to. It’s harder than usual to remember words. While he’s no stranger to this feeling, it doesn’t make him feel stupid the way it usually would. There’s no pressure to talk right now. He can just be quiet and cuddly, and that’s good, because quiet and cuddly is less likely to upset Leonard than saying something wrong…

“Do you want me to talk?”

Hartley manages a somewhat lopsided shrug. Decisions are as hard as talking in this headspace, and anyway, he doesn’t trust himself to choose correctly. 

There’s a stretch of silence as warm as the incandescent lights in Leonard’s study. Presently, Leonard speaks. “I’ve spent the last few hours on the phone. Do you want to know what I learned?”

Hartley blinks up at him. He’s intrigued, but he lacks the words to ask. 

“You’re not the first person your father has fired for their sexuality.” Leonard skims his thumb around the shell of Hartley’s ear. It feels unexpectedly good, and he can’t restrain a delighted little mewl. “I spoke to eight people who were fired for their sexuality since the enactment of that protective law. Two of them have agreed to meet with DA Horton, and they indicated that they knew other people who might be willing to do the same. I’m not going to pressure you to sue—that choice is entirely yours—but I will see your father pay for what he did to you and to them.” 

Hartley can’t help lighting up. He doesn’t think he’ll ever have the strength to defy his father so publicly, but if Leonard and DA Horton manage to bring his father down, he’ll watch and cheer. 

“That law is the only reason I felt safe enough to run for mayor. It's not just vital to the community; it's personal to me.” Leonard rubs his fingertips over Hartley’s scalp. “I’m not about to let some rich bastard consider himself above it.” 

“Oh.” Hartley cuddles closer, trying to apologize without words for his father’s actions. Leonard coos. 

“Shh, it’s okay. I’m not upset at you. I’m just upset _for_ you.”

After that, silence falls again. Hartley is comfortable and safe, and it’s easy to just relax into those feelings. It gets harder to focus on anything except the steady pressure of Leonard’s fingers, and then even that turns into a comfortable background hum. 

Hartley wakes several hours later, fuzzy-headed and warm. It’s a struggle to open his eyes; drifting back to sleep would be unspeakably easy, and he can scarcely remember why he’d bother to resist. When he manages to open his eyes, he remembers. He’s still in Leonard’s lap, and he has been for hours. All his thoughts of self-reproach dissipate when he sits up and sees that Leonard is sleeping just as soundly as he was moments ago. 

“Oh.” Hartley skims gentle fingertips over Leonard’s cheek. He’s so sweet when he’s asleep; lashes fanned across his cheeks, face relaxed, mouth slack, snoring softly. When Hartley touches him, he snuffles, turns his head into the touch, and settles into the new position. “Oh, shh. Stay asleep.” 

The longer he sits and looks, the more compelled he feels to lean in and kiss him. He’s leaning in to give him a kiss on the cheek when the implications of what he’s doing hit him like an open palm. He flees from the sofa, hastens to the guest room, and curls on the floor next to his suitcase. 

_“Bad,”_ he chides. _“Bad_ and disgusting. He wasn’t awake, he couldn’t say no. You think you have the right to do whatever you like to someone who can’t refuse?” 

He falls asleep curled on his suitcase, one hand kneading his thigh. This is good, he reminds himself. This is where he belongs.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh heck. Warning for a relatively graphic cutting scene and thoughts of suicide. This is not a happy chapter, so absolutely skip it if you have to.

Hartley wakes when the door opens. Without his glasses, he can only see the outline of the person peering in. Judging by the formidable shoulder width, it’s Mick. 

“What are you doing on the floor, kid?”

Hartley jams his glasses on his face. He feels rumpled and sleepy-slow—he can only imagine what Mick thinks of him. “I didn’t want to mess up the bed.”

With his glasses on, he can see Mick’s lopsided smile. “Sheets wash up, kid, and you can make the bed as neat as you want. This is your room. Get comfortable.” 

He’s probably going to stay on the floor. Nonetheless, he offers a small smile and asks, “Should I be going?”

Mick frowns. “I just said get comfortable. And nah, Len just sent me to tell you there’s breakfast whenever.”

Hartley chooses to take this as an invitation. As soon as Mick leaves, he slips into new clothes, brushes his teeth and hair, and makes himself as presentable as possible. When he enters the dining room, he finds Leonard reading the newspaper on his tablet and sipping a cup of coffee. 

“Good morning,” he offers shyly. “I, um, didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.” 

“I didn’t mind.” Leonard smiles, so sweet and genuine that Hartley feels a little gleeful flutter in his chest. “You didn’t have to leave.”

Hartley pours himself a glass of water and sits down at the table. There’s nothing set out to eat, and he’s certainly not going to rummage. He’s a guest. He needs to take what he’s given and not ask for more. It’s not like he usually eats breakfast anyway. “You’ll have to go in to work today, I imagine.” 

Leonard nods. “I don’t want to,” he sighs. “You have no idea how dull it is. Being here with you would be a much more worthwhile way to spend my day.” He catches Hartley’s hand. “I’ll be home around six. You’re free to look around—not in my room, perhaps, anywhere else. Mick will be with me, so you’ll have the house to yourself.”

That’s not good. Having the house to himself means no one to tell him what he can and can’t do. Lacking guidance, he’ll shut himself in the guest room and think too much. “I’m going to the library,” he says hurriedly. “I need to apply for jobs, and it will do me good to get out and about.”

Leonard purses his lips. “I’ll drop you on the way,” he says. “You’re still injured. I don’t want you walking long distances.” 

“I’ll have to walk home,” Hartley reminds him. He summons up his sweetest smile, as though he’s not idly considering running until he splits his stitches. “Really, I’ll be okay.”

True to his word, he is. He wanders down to the library and spends several hours submitting applications to various labs around Central City. (His heart does a funny little stutter when he submits an application to STAR Labs. Ever since he was small, he’s dreamed of working there. This has absolutely nothing to do with a childish crush on its head scientist.) 

After finishing his applications, he wanders around downtown. Against his better judgment, he buys cheesy fries and sits in the park to eat them. This leads to a brief but terrifying altercation with a goose, and he leaves the park high on adrenaline. 

By the time he gets back to Leonard’s house, most of the adrenaline has died away. In its place is a dull, listless feeling that’s more repulsive to him than self-loathing. He enters the house by way of a key hidden in a flowerpot. Once inside, he realizes Leonard and Mick are still out. With a little thrill, he realizes he has the house to himself. If he happens to cut, nobody will be around to find out. 

Once the thought enters his head, he can’t shake it. It hasn’t quite been a week since he last cut, but the need to do so hums under his skin. Everything will make sense when he cuts. All the confusion, loss, and upheaval of the last week will become perfectly clear with a little bit of pain to put them in perspective. 

By rote, he fetches the knife from his suitcase and locks himself in the guest bathroom. He toes off his shoes, strips out of his trousers, and discards the bandages still wound around his thighs. Last week’s cuts are a dull, healing red. He removes the stitches and frowns when the cuts don’t immediately reopen. He hasn’t rubbed them enough, clearly. 

He reopens the healing cuts slowly, savoring the deep, sharp pain. The anxious energy under his skin ebbs, escaping with the first trickle of blood. In its place are absolute clarity and a conviction he’s never had before: that he could end it now and nobody would care. It’s so simple, so accessible, that he balks. He’s never thought of suicide as a present option; it was always vague, distant, a last recourse. Now, if he cuts just a little deeper, he would remove a persistent burden from the lives of everyone he cares about. 

There’s a knock at the door. “Kid? Tell me you’re okay.”

“Never better.” 

Something in his voice must be amiss. That’s the only explanation he can offer for why, moments later, the door opens. Mick stands there, dime in hand, having picked the flimsy lock. When he sees Hartley perched on the edge of the tub holding the knife, he approaches at a slow, steady pace. 

“Kid, hey. Give me the knife.” 

Hartley clutches it to his chest. If he gives it to Mick, he’ll never see it again. He’s stupid, but not naïve enough to believe he’ll get it back. 

“Okay.” Mick kneels beside him and holds a broad hand over the cuts. Hartley scowls. He knows what Mick is doing, and the worst thing is that it _works._ Of course he won’t try anything if he risks hurting Mick. “Are you gonna fight me? Or are you gonna give me the knife?”

Slowly, Hartley hands over the knife. Letting go hurts, and in its absence, the sting of the cuts is almost unbearable. 

“Easy, kid,” Mick coos. “You’re okay now.”

Hartley tolerates having his wounds bandaged. (He doesn’t get stitches this time, for which he’s grateful.) As Mick works, Leonard comes into the room and simply stands, arms crossed. 

“I can go,” Hartley offers presently. 

“I’m not angry,” Leonard replies. To Hartley’s shock, his voice emerges quivering and breathy, as though he’s on the verge of tears. “You’re breaking my heart.”

Unexpectedly, Hartley finds himself fighting back tears. He tries to speak evenly—there’s no sense in crying when he did this to himself. “I have to. I need it, I deserve it. I—I don’t want to hurt you, but I can’t stop.” 

Leonard folds him into a tight, clinging embrace. It’s too much; Hartley is torn between the need to push for space and the desire to burrow closer until there’s no space left between them. He settles for rocking anxiously side to side, and after a moment, Leonard rocks with him. 

“I can’t stop.” Hartley’s voice hitches. He clings tighter in a desperate attempt to stave off tears. “I can’t—I can’t stop.”

“Shh.” Leonard cradles the back of his head. “It’s okay. Oh, shh, it’s okay. I won’t leave you to deal with this alone.” He keeps rocking, steady and soothing. Slowly, Hartley calms down. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’ve got you. You don’t have to go through this alone anymore.” 

They end up sitting on the end of the bed, cuddling. Hartley resists initially—he doesn’t get to mess up such a nicely-made bed—but Leonard urges, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” until he sits down. In the safety of Leonard’s arms, Hartley finally permits himself to cry. 

“I didn’t even get to say goodbye to her.” 

Leonard makes soft, pitying sounds and keeps rocking. Hartley ought to hate it—he associates this level of comfort with his mother’s stifling reassurances that nothing is wrong—but he doesn’t feel stifled. He feels heard and understood more than he ever has before. 

“I lost so much,” he begs. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I’m here to help.” Leonard presses a kiss to his temple. “I know that won’t make it better, but know you don’t have to figure this out on your own.” 

“I know.” Hartley can’t remember the last time someone came alongside him this way. His parents never would, and it isn’t Jerrie’s responsibility. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me,” Leonard murmurs, his voice muffled against Hartley’s skin. “You deserve this kind of support.”

He doesn’t, but for the moment, he can almost make himself believe it.


	15. Chapter 15

That weekend is the CCPD’s spring party. Hartley finds himself standing on the steps of the community building, arm-in-arm with Leonard. He feels horribly out of place. “And you’re sure you couldn’t have found a worthier date?” 

Leonard brings Hartley’s hand to his lips and kisses it. “I’m sure.”

Hartley fights the urge to recoil. There’s no need for secrecy now: thanks to the unfortunate tabloid headline, everyone knows they’re together. That doesn’t mean he can unlearn protective habits all at once. 

The community building is packed with officers and their partners. The out-of-place feeling crescendos into full-body panic. There are too many people here. He needs to leave. 

“I can’t, I—it’s loud.” 

Leonard turns to him in confusion. Whatever he sees makes his expression soften. “We don’t have to stay long,” he promises. “I just need to make the rounds, talk to the expected people—it won’t take more than twenty minutes. Here.” He steers them through the room to a quiet corner. “You don’t have to be social if you don’t want to. I’ll come right back for you.” 

The desire to be away from the crowd wars with the instinct to stay as close to Leonard as possible. In the end, Hartley decides not to be clingy. Leonard doesn’t have the time to deal with a needy partner. “Okay.” 

Before he leaves, Leonard presses a sweet, chaste kiss to Hartley’s lips. “Step out if you need to,” he murmurs. “I’ll find you.”

After Leonard leaves, Hartley retreats further into the corner and into his head. He shouldn’t have agreed to come. He doesn’t like parties—the only reason he could tolerate Rathaway Industries events is because he had a role to play. Here, with no role and no script, he’s out of his depth. He shouldn’t have come. 

“Hey, are you okay?” 

Hartley glances up into the wide green eyes of a pretty, bespectacled young man. “I’m fine,” he says, slipping easily into his most familiar script. “How are you?”

The boy sways uncertainly. “It’s okay. I don’t like parties either.” Now that he says so, Hartley can see the tells in him: the tense, uncertain line of his shoulders; the nervous, fidgety way he holds his hands; the skittish look in his eyes. “Um, I’m Barry. I know who you are, of course—Hartley Rathaway, I followed your inventions, you’re brilliant, and I’m so sorry about what happened—can I, can I hug you?” 

Hartley struggles to follow the word vomit over the background noise. Out of habit, he nods and makes an affirming sound. He barely knows to expect the warm embrace. Even as a startled sound tears its way free of his lips, he relaxes into the touch. Barry is soft and warm and perfect for hugging, and Hartley doesn’t want to let go. 

“I’m sorry.” Barry draws away too quickly, clasps his fidgety hands in front of himself, and rocks side to side. “I don’t mean to be awkward, I just…I’m bi, and seeing that your parents threw you out for being gay made me so angry, and I just don’t want you to think nobody’s on your side. Because I am. If that counts for anything.” 

Tears spring, unbidden and unwanted, to Hartley’s eyes. He shouldn’t cry. It’s repulsive and stupid and _bad_ to cry in public, even if a boy he’s never met before is being so sweet. 

“I-it’s okay, you’re not awkward,” he murmurs. 

“Oh.” Barry rocks some more. “That’s good, I guess.” 

“Barry.” A small woman in a crisp pantsuit strides over. One of her hands slips naturally to the nape of Barry’s neck. His reaction is immediate; he melts into her touch, his expression so open and loving that Hartley feels like an intruder. “What are you doing, pretty boy?” 

“Iris.” Barry says it with shameless adoration. “I was saying hi to Hartley. This is the ‘party is too loud for us’ corner.” 

Hartley finds himself on the receiving end of keen-eyed scrutiny. Iris—Detective West, he recognizes her now—extends a hand to him. “I’m so sorry for what your parents did to you,” she says. “Nobody deserves to be turned out like that for who they love.” 

Hartley is spared having to come up with a polite answer by Leonard, who strides over and says, “Detective West, I’ve been looking for you.”

“Heard I was up for promotion, probably, and wanted to get in my good graces while you still can.” Iris clasps his hand warmly. “Good to see you, Len. How’s your sister?”

“Lisa?” Leonard chuckles. “As stubborn and contrary as you know her to be. Right now, she’s the sole proponent of a Metahuman Protection Act designed to limit the power of the proposed registry.”

Hartley goes to drift away. Leonard is in his element here, mingling and networking and being the lovely, earnest man Hartley knows him to be. He doesn’t need burdened by someone who can’t socialize beyond scripted pleasantries. Before he can leave, Leonard catches his hand and pulls him close. 

“I see the two of you met my date.” He casts Hartley a tender smile that makes his heart skip a beat. He doesn’t deserve it, but it feels so good to be looked at like that. “You know we can leave whenever you want, but I was hoping we could dance first, if you feel up to it.” 

“Um.” Before Barry’s gentle intrusion, Hartley would probably have said no. Now, Barry’s presence has put him more at ease. It won’t last long, but it might be enough to see him through a dance. “I’d like that.” 

Leonard leads him onto the dance floor and pulls him close, much the way he had in the rain. Hartley shakes the thought away. He wants to appreciate this for what it is; he can't afford to focus on when he was outed. 

“Look at you. I couldn’t have asked for a better partner to dance with.” Leonard's hand flattens against the small of Hartley’s back. Obediently, he steps closer, although the reduced space leaves him breathless and off-balance. It isn’t the pleasurable giddiness of being too close to Leonard; it’s the skittish, too-much feeling he gets after too long in a crowd. Leonard must be able to tell, because he lets him step back a pace. “I’m sorry. You really don’t like this, do you?” 

“No,” Hartley admits. He ought to correct himself, to say of course he likes it, lest Leonard think him as useless as his father always did. Foolishly, he keeps going. “It’s a lot, and if I don’t have a role to play, I get overwhelmed.” 

“I think I understand,” Leonard agrees. “I have the advantage of being able to be the mayor, rather than have to worry about being myself. You’ve just had your role stripped away from you.” 

Hartley nods. “Exactly.” 

Leonard tilts his head. “I wish there was some way I could help.”

“You’ve done more than enough for me,” Hartley hurries to assure him. Asking for more help would be ungrateful, especially given that he’s still cluttering up Leonard’s guest room. “I just got called in for an interview at STAR Labs, so I might be on my way to finding another job and a role I can handle.” 

“Congratulations.” Leonard’s smile creases the corners of his eyes. “STAR Labs is incredibly selective even for their interviews.”

“Don’t jinx me, I still have to talk to them!” Hartley has never done an interview before. He can only imagine the interviewer will dismiss him within moments of opening his mouth. “I’ll let you know how it goes. Until then, I…” Hesitantly, he steps closer. “I just like being with you.” 

Leonard brushes his lips over Hartley’s cheek. “I have faith in you,” he says. “And until you find a new job to steal you away from me, I want to spend as much time with you as possible.”

They dance for longer than Hartley intended. As they collect their jackets and step out into the cool spring night, he finds he doesn’t mind the extra time in the crowd as much as he thought.


	16. Chapter 16

Hartley returns to the house all but bouncing. Leonard isn’t home yet, he reminds himself; he has a few hours to lower his enthusiasm into something more palatable and less annoying. He’s not prepared to find the car in the driveway and Mick in the front room. 

“You’re home early!” 

“That happens sometimes,” Mick rumbles. He tilts his head. Oh, right, Hartley’s probably quivering with excitement, he needs to not be doing that… “Something happen, kid?”

“I got the job!” The words burst from him too loudly. He needs to shut up now, but if he doesn’t tell somebody he might explode. “They said the interview was just a formality, Dr. Wells really wants me on his team, they hired me on the spot!” 

Mick scoops him into a hug. It’s an unprecedented level of familiarity, but it’s exactly what Hartley needs; the pressure makes him feel less like he’s going to explode from delight. “Course they did, kid. They’d be fools not to. You’re brilliant, y’know.” 

Hartley squeaks and quivers like an overexcited puppy. He needs to not do that. Mick ought to tease him for it until he feels suitably guilty and stops being so bothersome, but he doesn’t. He just keeps hugging Hartley until the quivering slows down and he feels slightly more composed. 

“When d’you start?” 

“Tomorrow!” Hartley clenches his hands into fists but can’t quite stop himself from waving them joyfully. He needs to not do that. Happy hands are stupid and bad and why he doesn’t get to be happy, because when he’s happy he’s stupid and bad. “I can’t believe it, it’s all happening so fast…”

“What’s happening?” Leonard pokes his head out of his office. Upon seeing Hartley quivering and happy-flapping, he hurries out and wraps him in a hug. Hartley squeaks. He’s used to being chided for being this radiantly happy, not being hugged for it. 

“I got the job! They hired me on the spot, they said Dr. Wells has watched my work for a long time and he was excited to get my application, I start _tomorrow!”_

Leonard squeezes him tight and rocks him side to side. This is good—better than good. It’s exactly what Hartley needs to burn off some of the gleeful buzzing energy. “That’s amazing! Look at you. STAR Labs takes only the best, and they didn’t even hesitate. Of course they wouldn’t, my wonderful, brilliant boy.” 

Hartley gasps. He’s not used to being so effusively praised. It makes the buzzing happy energy double in intensity, and he rocks more vigorously to burn it off. 

“May I kiss you?” 

Hartley has never been kissed while he was excited before. He doesn’t know what to expect. “Um, sure?” 

Leonard brings their lips together in a soft, sweet, dizzying kiss. Hartley promptly forgets how to breathe. When they break apart, it takes him several seconds to remember. 

“Good?” Leonard asks when he draws in a gasping breath. 

“Uh, yeah, good.” His brain is hopelessly stalled. Instead, he falls back on a script. “How about you? How was your day?” 

Leonard gives him an indulgent smile. “Well, I checked with DA Horton. The suit against your father has been filed and presented to him. There are four plaintiffs now—apparently this was a much wider-spread problem than anyone knew.” He brushes his fingertips over Hartley’s cheek. 

“That sounds right.” Hartley can’t help but be furtively glad the lawsuit is underway. He’s nowhere near brave enough to testify, but he wants his father to suffer for what he’s done. He has no interest in money; it’s his father’s good name, which has long been his pride and joy, that he wants to see taken away. 

“I’ll see this made right.” Leonard kisses his brow. “For you, and for them. For now, why don’t you tell me all about this interview? It sounds like it went well.”

Hartley ought to deflect. If he starts talking, he’ll try to give Leonard every detail and bore him to tears. But he’s being invited to talk, and as long as he shuts up the moment Leonard loses interest…and he’s _so_ happy… “Tell me to stop when I get annoying.”

Leonard shakes his head. “After everything that’s happened, you have the right to your joy for as long as possible. Now come here to me and tell me all about it.” 

Obediently, Hartley follows him to the sofa, sits down, and launches into the story. When he reaches the end, Leonard is still listening raptly. That of itself keeps Hartley happy-rocking. 

“Thank you.”

“Thank me?” Leonard’s brow furrows. “Why?”

“Well, nobody’s ever wanted to hear me ramble before.” Maybe, Hartley reminds himself, he misread something. Maybe poor Leonard has been bored out of his mind since the very first word. Or maybe, he concedes when Leonard cradles his hands, he really doesn’t mind. “I’m annoying when I’m happy—I talk too much, and then there’s the rocking…”

“Oh, did they lie to you.” Leonard kisses his knuckles and seems amused when he gives a tiny, uncontrollable happy-flap. “Your excitement is infectious. I want to see you this happy as much as possible.”

Hartley makes a soft, shocked sound. “Oh. Oh, you mean that. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” Leonard murmurs. “You deserve this.”

Hours later, after a cheerful dinner and meandering conversations that last long into the night, Hartley realizes he forgot to question whether Leonard meant it. Panic flares, small and brief—he _needs_ to question, he’s too stupid to understand what people actually mean—before it’s smothered by peaceful trust. Leonard meant it. He’s not bad for being happy. 

Maybe, he dares to hope, he can be that happy again soon.


	17. Chapter 17

Hartley’s first day at STAR Labs is so perfect that by the time he returns to the house, he’s bouncing. Leonard greets him with a warm embrace and rocks him side to side until some of the gleeful energy dissipates. 

“It looks like it was a good day,” he coos. 

“Phenomenal,” Hartley agrees. He ought to shut up, but too much happened for him to keep quiet. “The team I’m working with is magnificent, and I actually got to meet Harrison Wells. God, he’s even more impressive in person.”

Leonard casts a furtive look at Mick, who’s standing a respectful few paces back, before leaning in. “And he’s attractive,” he says in an exaggerated whisper. 

Hartley gives a shocked giggle. Of course his crush on Well is obvious ( _stupid revolting thing_ ) but rather than mock him, Leonard agrees? That’s not something he could have foreseen. “You really think so?”

“Those eyes?” Leonard lays a hand over his heart. “Spectacular, and this is coming from someone who’s been told his own eyes aren’t too bad.” 

“They’re not!” Hartley hurries to assure him. “They’re captivating.” When Leonard’s smile only grows, he blushes. “I wasn’t supposed to say that, was I?”

“No, you’re all right.” Leonard kisses his brow. “So tell me more. You had a good day, before we got sidetracked by our mutual appreciation for attractive inventors.” 

“Well, it was just an orientation, but it was so fun.” Hartley rocks side to side again, excited just by the thought of his brilliant first day. “I went through the entire facility—it’s enormous, there was so much to see! Then I’ll spend the next few weeks getting acquainted with the machinery I’ll be using. It’s all incredibly precise, I have to be well-trained before I’m allowed to run it.”

“Weeks?” Leonard shakes his head. “You’ll learn it all in a matter of days. I think Wells knows that.” 

Hartley blushes. There isn’t the same undertone of expectation that his parents would have had if they said the same thing; it’s all encouragement and belief. As hard as it is to believe, Leonard is _impressed_ by him. “Um. I was thinking on the way back, though—now that I have a job, I should go find an apartment of my own. There’s no point in taking up your spare room anymore.” 

“Even if I want you there?” Leonard nudges his fingertips against Hartley’s hand. Hartley twitches away; then, shyly, he reaches back and intertwines their fingers. In response, Leonard brings their clasped hands to his lips. “You don’t need to stay—after being so stifled by your parents, I’d understand wanting your own space. I just don’t want you thinking you need to leave, because you don’t. I like having you here, and if you want to stay, you’re welcome to.”

 _He’s offering out of politeness_ and _I can stay?_ chase each other on a loop around Hartley’s mind. He ought to leave. He needs to remember how much of a burden he is and stop leeching off of Leonard. So why is it so hard to say he’ll go?

“You can pay rent, if you think that’s necessary,” Leonard adds. “I don’t want you to feel indebted to me. I want you to be comfortable.” 

“I—I would like that,” Hartley blurts before he can lose his nerve. “The rent, but mostly the staying.” 

Slowly, Leonard’s face breaks into a wide, genuine grin. “You want to stay with me,” he murmurs. He looks like it’s the best news he’s heard in weeks. Hartley can’t fathom what’s so special about him that him staying is exciting, but it kindles a joyous warmth in his chest that he would never have been able to feel a month ago. “May I…?”

“Yes.” Hartley leans in and kisses him gently on the mouth. Unbidden, tears spring to his eyes. “I—I can’t believe I’m this happy.”

“You deserve to be.” Leonard presses their clasped hands against Hartley’s cheek. “After all you’ve been through, you should get to be happy.”

“It doesn’t…it’s still not right.” Hartley thinks of the pending lawsuit against his father. He thinks of Jerrie, still stuck in that house. And finally, he comes to a decision. “Do I still have the chance to testify against my father?”

Leonard nods. “I’ll let Cecile know right away.” He turns to go. Then he looks back long enough to say, “I love you.” 

Hartley doesn’t know if he can say it aloud, but when he brings both arms up to his chest—‘love you same’—the look in Leonard’s eyes says he understands.


	18. Chapter 18

When the case against Rathaway Industries starts, it gets going fast. Hartley has two panic attacks and a mini meltdown in a week. The day of his testimony finds him sobbing in the bathroom of the courthouse with a remarkably patient Leonard at his side. He manages through tears, “I’ve gone years without this happening, you know. They won’t let me take something to do with my hands up onto the stand with me, will they?”

Leonard shakes his head. “I’m afraid not.” 

Hartley musters a weak laugh and forces himself to stand up. The fluorescent lights make his eyes and head hurt, but he can’t wear sunglasses. He’s going to burst into more tears at the slightest provocation. He’s not ready to get on the stand, but he has to be. “Okay. Okay, I’ll be fine.” 

He is not fine. Telling his story under DA Horton’s guidance goes well. Despite the bad taste they leave in his mouth, he omits no details, including a by no means comprehensive but hopefully convincing list of the slurs his father hurled at him the last time they spoke. When DA Horton asks if he had any prior indications of his father’s attitudes, Hartley laughs. There are so many he struggles to think of a particularly good example. Then he recalls something his father said to him about Leonard. 

“Before I was outed, my parents knew that I was spending time with Mayor Snart. I told them I liked his ideas for a more sustainable Central City, that I was seeing if he had ideas for new technology that might aid his vision—a lie, but a necessary one, I felt at the time. My father said, and I quote, ‘A company that prides itself on endorsing family values shouldn’t be openly supportive of a deviant.’”

DA Horton nods and sends a significant glance at the jury. Hartley lights up ever-so-slightly. He feels like, perhaps, his story might be the tipping point for their case. 

Then the cross-examination sends him into another meltdown. His father’s lawyer accuses him of having gotten a job at Rathaway Industries only through his family connections (lies, as his qualifications for his shiny new job at STAR Labs more than qualified him for Rathaway Industries), of being a terrible son who squandered his parents’ money (this is the point at which the tears begin), and of running away from home to live as a spoiled pet of the mayor. At this point, DA Horton objects—far too loudly for Hartley’s meltdown-sensitized ears—and Hartley does his best to tune out the lawyer’s rebuttal that, in bringing a case about his personal life, Hartley opened that personal life up to scrutiny. 

As soon as the cross-examination is done, Hartley flees the courtroom. He can’t stand to look at Leonard and think how badly he failed him. He can’t look at his family, sitting so prim and proper, and face his father’s hateful scowl and his mother’s stifling pity. He can’t look at Jerrie and think this might be the last time he’ll see her. 

“Hart!”

Leonard doesn’t call him that. When he turns around, he finds Jerrie standing in the middle of the hallway, looking exceptionally small in the fancy clothes their parents have forced her into. He blots tears from his eyes and murmurs, “Jerrie?”

She runs over to him and hugs him fiercely. “They don’t want me to talk to you,” she rants, “but they’re wrong. You’re my big brother and you’re not _anything_ like that man said.”

“They shouldn’t have brought you here.” The shouting that happens in a courtroom is too much for Jerrie. She should be at home, safe with a caregiver and away from all of this. “You shouldn’t have had to see this.”

She burrows her face into his chest. “I didn’t know Papa did that to so many people. I don’t want to be with him anymore, I wanna go with you.”

“They won’t let you.” Hartley wishes more than anything that there was a way to get her out of that house, but he has no chance. Even if he managed to convince someone to check whether Jerrie is being mistreated (which, to an outside neurotypical eye, she probably isn’t), their father would buy his way out of it the way he always does. “I wish I could take you with me, but I can’t.”

“It’s not fair!” Jerrie snaps. “They shouldn’t get to keep me from seeing you just for who you are!”

The courtroom door swings open and their mother steps into the hallway. “Jerrie,” she says in that constrictingly calm, cloying voice. “Come here.”

“No!” She stomps her foot. “I want to go with Hartley!”

“Don’t make a scene.” Their mother catches Jerrie’s arm and holds her still. While she’s close, she looks at Hartley with too-wide, too-earnest eyes. “It’s not too late, Hartley. You can come home. All of this can go away, just like it never happened. We can find you someone to talk to, and you can…”

“Be normal again?” Hartley scoffs. He glances at the courtroom door. Somewhere in that room, his Leonard is sitting, waiting for him to come back. Or maybe he’s even now on his way out to check on him. He’s far better than Hartley deserves, but somehow he loves him and Hartley is never going to give up on that. “You don’t get it, do you? I’m happy—really happy, maybe for the first time in my life, and you want me to give all this up so I can force myself back into that cage you call a home?” He shudders. “No. No, I’m past that now. This is me, like it or not. You’re the one who has to be held accountable for your bigotry.”

Jerrie pulls away from their mother and runs over to him. “I don’t want you to have to go!” she yells. More quietly, she admits, “I know why you need to. But I don’t want you to go.”

Hartley sighs and cups her cheek. “One day, they’ll have to answer for the way they treat you, and I’m gonna do everything I can to make that day come soon. But I can’t stay at home any more, Jerrie. Not when I’ve found out what it’s like to not have to hide.”

She nods and murmurs, “I’m gonna text you whenever they take me someplace you can go. I wanna still see you.”

He nods. “I’ll be there.”

Reluctantly, Jerrie wanders back to their mother, who pulls her into the courtroom. As they walk toward the door, Hartley catches a glimpse of Leonard leaning against the wall by the door. 

“You heard that?” Hartley feels acutely guilty. How will Leonard, who sacrificed so much for his sister, feel about Hartley abandoning Jerrie to their parents' stifling home?

Leonard nods. “And I’m impressed. I didn’t know you had that in you, especially after the way that lawyer…” His face darkens. Hartley catches his hand.

“The things you do to me,” he murmurs, only half joking. It makes Len smile. 

“Well, if I inspire such confidence, I guess I’ll have to keep doing what I’m doing.”

“Yeah,” Hartley agrees, relief thickening his voice. Leonard isn't upset - he's _proud._ He’s still too shy to kiss Leonard in public, but he’s perfectly happy holding hands. “I guess you do.”

***

It takes the jury two days to come back with the verdict: Rathaway Industries is guilty of discriminatory employment practices. Hartley breaks into happy flaps when the verdict is read in court, stifles them, then flaps again when Leonard smiles at him. Better yet is the look of utter shock on his father’s face. Hartley doubts he ever entertained the notion that he could lose. 

“Good,” Leonard says fiercely. 

“It won’t change him,” Hartley murmurs. He can’t help glancing across the courtroom at Jerrie, although he knows they can’t do anything for her right now. “He’ll stay as bigoted as he always was. If anything, this will make him more bitter.”

Leonard nods. “Oh, that much I knew. But you stood up to him—you were a critical reason that he lost the reputation you said he held so dear.” He takes Hartley’s hands and kisses his knuckles. “That counts for a lot, in my humble opinion.”

“Yeah,” Hartley agrees. He even manages another smile. “I guess it does.”

Leonard gets to his feet and pulls gently on his hand. “Are you ready to go home?”

It’s strange to think of Leonard’s house, where until so recently he felt like a trespasser, as his home, but it is now—it’s more of a home than his parents’ house ever was. “Yeah,” he says, letting Leonard pull him to his feet. “I am.”


End file.
